


only a northern song

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, 1963, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beatles, Ambiguous Romantic Relationships, Bisexuality, Class Issues, Coming of Age, Gender Roles, M/M, Masculinity is a Prison, Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Culture, Slow Burn, Socialism, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9980399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: AU. Paul works at a record shop, takes night classes to be a teacher, and has sworn off his childish dream of being a musician. John Lennon is a dock worker, poet, and disturber of the peace. In which the story had to be diverted before they could come together. Liverpool, 1963.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pivoinesque](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pivoinesque).



> behold: the obligatory "what if the beatles never happened" au!
> 
> i've had this idea rattling around my head for a while. i actually started it quite a while ago, then abandoned it for whatever reason, found it in my drafts, and picked it up again. i'm so interested in what these boys might have done without the beatles. it's something i've returned to in re-reading the beatles' _anthology_ , especially with paul describing his experience sweeping the courtyard of a factory, and how numbing and dull it was. i wanted to take that concept further, in addition to the idea that john and paul never met at the fete. because lbr, had they met, paul would have followed john anywhere.
> 
> i was inspired to continue this fic thanks to my dear lovely piv. you're such a supportive and beautiful person. i'm so incredibly glad that i know you. thank you for being endlessly patient with all of my ideas and even - how dare you! - encouraging my never-ending list of AU and fic ideas. you're awful!!! so i continued this beast to demonstrate just how awful you actually are x
> 
> a note re. the construction of this AU: everything is timeline and period accurate. i've done a lot of research into liverpool in 1963. nothing is mentioned without me making sure that it did definitely exist at that time. all the music linked in the fic was popular or released in/before 1963. also, you may wonder later, is john a socialist? why would she do this? because, my friend, let me take your hand and explain to you a concept: revolutionary john, standing on a picket line, chanting "solidarity!" 
> 
> just think about it.
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:** the majority of this fic has been written  & is ready to publish! i will be publishing chapters at a steady pace to like, encourage me or whatever, but rest assured everything in this fic has been planned out and will have a conclusion. please do leave comments and so forth as we go along - i love to hear what you think! hope you like it x

Unusually for Liverpool’s dire public transport system, Paul was early to work. The morning had come grey and blustery, the mid-spring air sea-bitten and cool, prompting him to pull on a thin wool coat over his jacket and jumper to save himself from freezing to death. Mike had laughed himself silly, the first time he’d seen Paul’s new coat.

“Got airs, have you?” he’d sneered, tinkering with his camera at the kitchen table. The same camera, mind, that Paul’s airs had saved the money for over two months.

“No more than you,” Paul replied coolly. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and sipped at his tea. “Nice leathers you’ve got there, Michael. New, are they?”

Mike coloured. “Bugger off,” he muttered, looking back at the loops of film scattered all over the linoleum surface. “At least I’m not a posh twat.”

 _A posh twat._ In other words: a sell-out to the grind entitled Adulthood _._ Paul was only twenty-one, but a fat lot of good that little fact did you when the average crowd at the Cavern on a Friday night still kept a curfew with their parents, were fanatic about _Rory Storm & the Hurricanes, _and had fallen arse over tit for the Mod craze that had swept through Liverpool like the plague. Even Mike, who’d once gamely imitated Paul’s rock n’ roll quiff, had his hair brushed forward over his forehead in a manner that made their father, good natured though he was, go a bit blue in the face. _If you want a job, son, you’ll comb that hair back,_ Jim said sternly, staring at them over the top of his newspaper. _What respectable business would have you, looking like that?_

In comparison to Mike’s new scene, Paul was ancient. Felt ancient, too. He supposed that was what turning twenty-one was really about: rolling downhill.

As the salty wind hurtled off the docks a few blocks down, Paul neared 24 Moorfields. Morning commuters bustled past him, hat brims pulled down low, women in high heels clicking to secretarial jobs, and men in briefcases hurrying about like ants. Paul joined the tide towards a distant shop front with the sun-faded purple drapes, then went to pull open a discreet door in the side of the building. Set in the black-painted window with gold lettering, NEMS RECORDS ushered him in like a beacon.

Closing the door behind him, Paul started up the steep staircase to the second floor. His cheeks were pinched with cold, and he wished, not for the first time, that the old ticking radiator he passed on the landing would warm up more quickly. On the day of his interview, Paul imagined that such a narrow way up would emerge into an equally cramped, dusty space, but the main floor of the shop was spacious and immaculately kept. Hanging records turned slowly in the draft, large windows on the far side looking down onto the busy main street, and colourful posters of the latest bands covered the walls. Upcoming shows were advertised along the front of the counter, around which Paul headed, pulling off his muffler as he did so. The middle of the shop was a warren of record trolleys, all of them stuffed with the standards, like The Kingsmen or The Essex, alongside the more unusual types; the records that were brought to Epstein’s attention by scruffy-faced Casbah dwellers, wanting the latest release from some obscure band out of Holland or wherever.

Even when Paul was a lad who still played music properly, NEMS was the only place to go. Nowhere else understood what it was _like:_ that burning feeling of hearing a song for the first time, having a handful of misheard lyrics winding through your mind until you went barmy, only to end up at the grotty corner shop with some old codger staring at you, chewing tobacco, rousing only to say, “D’ye want Frankie Valli or not, then?”

Shrugging off his coat, Paul commenced setting up. He’d flipped on the telephone line and was trying to coax some heat out of the radiator when the front door slammed, issuing a great gust of cold air up the stairwell, and a series of hurried thumps herald the arrival of Martin.

Windswept and squinting behind his glasses, Martin burst around the corner and said, “Is Brian here?”

“Not yet,” Paul replied, amused. He looked back at the radiator and cranked it a few more degrees.

“Thank God.” Martin sounded so utterly relieved that Paul raised an eyebrow at him. Straightening up, Paul watched him clatter around behind the counter, his bright red hair standing on end, actions short and nervous.

“Has Marvin Gaye dropped dead or something?” Paul asked.

“What?” Martin paused in shrugging off his leather jacket. “No, nothin’ like that. Some ruddy demonstration down at the docks. Blocked up traffic from Barmouth all the way down.”

“Oh, right.” Disinterested, Paul turned the radiator up another coaxing level before going back behind the counter. The receipt machine from yesterday needed totalling, so he sat down and started punching in numbers.

Martin dropped into the stool beside him, exhaling loudly. Just as Paul was about to nicely suggest he start on stocktake, the front door opened and slammed again. The gust of wind this time sent the records hanging from the ceiling into a tailspin; Stevie Wonder dropped onto the floor and rolled away beneath BLUES - NEW.

As Paul got up to rescue the record, Peter came stomping up into the shop. The cigarette clenched between his teeth exacerbated the slightly wall-eyed look he got when he was anxious. He stopped in JAZZ & BIG BAND to stare at Paul. “Is Brian here?”

“Bloody hell,” Paul said, halfway beneath a record trolley. “He’s not won an M.B.E., has he?”

“He’s probably _getting_ an M.B.E.,” Martin said snidely, out of sight from behind the counter. Peter gave him a look that could curdle milk and took a drag from his cigarette.

“If ye get me drift,” Martin finished, deflating.

“Prime wit, you are,” Paul told him, getting off his knees, record in hand. He started looking around for the snapped thread.

“The wife wouldn’t shut up,” Peter grumbled to himself, shouldering through the records to get to the back office. “Add that to the traffic and the bedlam at the front…” Muttering something about workers and their fucking rights, he slammed the door behind him.

Martin looked at Paul from across the shop. “At least I’m not late,” he said cheerily.

“You may as well be. You going to start on stocktake, or is it up to me?” Paul hoisted Stevie Wonder to the ceiling and tied the string off. “Again.”

“Jesus,” Martin mumbled.

“Not in this shop,” he quipped. Paul returned to the machine and resumed work. After an intermission, during which Martin had made them both a cup of tea and had leisurely perused the new arrivals, he began unloading the cardboard boxes from the back.

Four months. That was how long it had been since Paul had cut his losses at teaching piano and went in search of proper employment. SHOP ASSISTANT – FULL TIME was not what he’d ever hoped to be, growing up, but it was more decent than holding a clipboard at the coil factory, and slightly better than spending his evenings in various living rooms, encouraging disinterested eleven-year-olds to play the C scale. More to the point, Jim had given him his blessing. _Give it a year, and you’ll have your own car, Paul._ Of the two markers in a Young Person’s Life – a car and a spouse – Paul supposed the latter was just slightly more exciting. At least a car didn’t fall pregnant when you were both twenty.

As the sound from the street warmed up, and the radiator ticked over, Paul faded into the morning ritual. File statements, check ledger, cross-reference incoming stock, pre-order releases, set up daily specials… He was in the middle of putting a stack of the new _Merseybeat_ on the top of the front counter when the door opened one last time.

The series of footsteps, light and quick on the stairs, meant only one person. Brian came swishing into the room, his tan coat belying the success of NEMS, his shoes polished to a shine. Paul straightened the hem of his woollen vest and said, “Morning, Mister Epstein.”

Brian’s gaze, which was often cold but shifted like silver, lingered on him for a moment. “How do you do, Paul,” he replied politely. When he was younger, Paul might have pulled a cruel imitation from Epstein’s curated vowels, the decidedly rounded, precise way in which he spoke. If Paul’s mother had heard him when she was alive, she would have said to Paul, _Mind the way he sounds. You should try to sound like that, James; he sounds proper,_ which in a faintly resentful way, meant Paul was hyperaware of his own accent. _Talking up,_ the boys at school had described him. _Putting it on._

“Have the new records come in yet?” Brian asked him, taking off his hat, holding his briefcase in his spare hand. He watched Paul flatly, mind already zeroed in on the doubtlessly busy morning ahead.

“Yeah, sir, Martin’s doing stocktake now,” Paul replied, to which Brian nodded sharply and said, slightly vaguely, “Very good, very good. I’ll be in meetings for most of today.” He looked at Paul and, had he been a different sort of person, might have raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Take any messages for me, would you.”

As if Paul had a choice. “Yes, sir.”

With a final nod, Brian swept around the front counter. He interrupted Martin emerging from the tea room, biscuit in hand, to say, “Good morning, Mister Brown.” Paul smirked as Martin fumbled and only managed a ‘hullo’ when the office door firmly closed.

Martin turned around to give Paul a helpless expression. Wagging his finger at him with a teasing look, Paul sauntered back to his seat.

“At this rate, I’ll be out by Easter,” Martin grumbled. He sat down again and took a long gulp of tea.

“Might be a good thing,” Paul muttered, thinking of the assessing look Brian fixed upon him at any moment of the day: catching his eye across the shop, calling him over with a sharp look to point out a new filing system, hovering a little too long at his side.

Martin grinned widely. “No, man, can’t abandon you, can I? I’m not the one who looks like a sailor’s pin-up.”

“Leave off,” Paul said, sharp. He knew the implication was true – he’d have to be completely daft not to notice – but that didn’t make the way Brian looked at him any less uncomfortable. Not least because Paul’s own interests ran somewhat parallel to Brian’s, and if he ever caught wind of _that,_ he’d be in real trouble.

“You’re uptight, Paul, that’s your problem.” Paul watched Martin dunk his biscuit in his mug and loose half of it in the process.

“Am I,” he said flatly.

When the bell above the front door jingled, Paul turned back to his work.

“We doing a half day?” Martin asked indistinctly. A couple of lads with French-styled trousers came up the stairs, and Paul nodded hello at them.

“If ye like,” he replied, running his pen down a column of pre-orders from last week. “And if you don’t finish that stocktake by midday, I’ll do it.”

Martin shot him a relieved smile. “Ta, Paul. I’ll owe ye.”

“Well, you better not leave me alone.” Paul caught Martin’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

With a knowing glance at Brian’s office door, Martin smirked and said, “Understood, man.” Then he turned away to accost the lads in SKIFFLE – OLD, and Paul had to swallow past the discomforting lump in his throat as he looked back at the paperwork.

* * *

The morning rolled past with its usual clamour. Their half day turned out to be useless, as The Crystals had released a new single just after Christmas and prompted a mad dash for the NEMS reserves, dragging them both onto the floor to ease the adolescent woes. In a sea of leather jackets and drainies, there stood Paul. Despite his fussy buttoned-up shirt, woollen jumper, fitted trousers, and neat hair, he felt the excitement of being able to be here, like this, surrounded by _music._ It was an intense, hidden thrill, like sipping lager from your father’s glass when he wasn’t looking.

Paul knew, deep down, that it was a pale imitation of what he’d felt when he stood close to a microphone and opened those first chords up to an audience, but at least he got paid doing this. There was something about discussing music – the Mary Wells LP, the new sound coming out of the West Coast, that funny Parisian band with the black saxophone player – and knowing that it was still respectable. That even his father, who’d been livid when Paul dropped the factory job, had begrudgingly admitted this was better suited for him. “At least you don’t look like you’re going off to war,” was how Jim had explained it. Most of the time NEMS was dull. But as [_Surfin’ Safari_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wVWDTYMFrk) rose happily through the tinny overhead system rigged around the shop, Paul thought it could be a whole lot worst.

By the late afternoon, the crowd had receded significantly. Martin was sorting the new records into the trolleys, and Paul was behind the counter having a smoke break. Brian would go ballistic if he caught anyone smoking inside, but earlier he and Peter had swept out for a meeting, a stack of files under arm. With the way Peter’s jaw clenched, they wouldn’t be returning for the rest of the day.

Exhaling from the corner of his mouth, Paul flicked through the classifieds section of the newspaper. Somewhere between Mike nicking his leather jacket and Jim making noises about him seeing Dot again, Paul had started perusing the TO LET column. Most of the adverts were for bedsits, which would make Jim apoplectic (“Is this house not good enough for you, son?”), but some of them looked promising. Paul was circling one entry when Martin leaned his arms over the top counter.

Looking up, Paul took the cigarette from his mouth. “Finished?”

Martin jerked his chin at the newspaper. “Lookin’ for a girlfriend, Paul?”

Stubbing out his cigarette, Paul smirked, “Why would I, when I have yours?”

“Hey!” Martin held up a hand to Paul’s laughter, then leaned closer with a pleased little grin. “Fiancée.”

“What?” Bloody hell, even someone like jug-earned Martin had a bird. “Since when?”

“About a week ago,” he said proudly. “I took her down the waterfront –”

“Dead romantic.”

“Fuck off. I took her down there, right, and she’s been whinging about her sister on her back, and I said, ‘Listen, why don’t we get hitched?’ And she said yes.”

“Well.” Paul struggled for a moment before plastering on a smile. “Congratulations. Want to go out and celebrate?”

“I’m having tea at the parents’ house,” Martin explained ruefully. He stole a cigarette from Paul’s pack and, ignoring his frown, lit up with Paul’s lighter. “Here,” he started, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “You looking for a new place?”

Paul closed the newspaper. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Just curious.”

“If your curiosity wants a flat, I know one going.” Martin couldn’t pick anything from Paul’s guileless expression, but he adjusted his glasses and peered at him regardless. “Anne wants us to get a new place. ‘So we can be together,’ she said. We’d be together anyway, I told her, but you know what they’re like…”

“Is this your place in Fairfield?” Paul asked, straining to remember when Martin’s family lived. They were all ginger and loud, Paul having met them at the Christmas party just passed. He still wasn’t sure just why Martin’s clan had turned up, but Brian had overcome his initial shock by generously offering them champagne and hanging out cigarettes. Jim had refused to go; and Paul had threatened Mike with mortal danger if he even thought of showing up with his rag-tag friends.

“No, man, I’m up Grafton way.” Tapping the ash off his cigarette into his pocket, Martin looked down at the newspaper. “Had it by meself for a few months now. It’s not a bad place. Landlady’s nice. Got a horrible yappy dog, though.”

“How much d’ye pay for it?” Paul asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Exhaling some smoke, Martin named the weekly rate then said calmly, “Want me to let ye know when I’m leavin’?”

“That close to the docks?” He must’ve sounded incredulous, because Martin made a face and shrugged. Paul tapped out another cig and slowly put it in his mouth, thinking. “Yeah.” He nodded at Martin. “Alright. Thanks, if ye don’t mind.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, aren’t ye supposed to be off?” Paul blinked up at him, then looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall.

“Shit.” He stood up quickly. Paul put the cigarette back in the pack, then folded the newspaper and put it in the leather holdall he carried his diploma stuff in. Pulling on his jacket, then his coat, he raised his eyebrows at Martin. “You alright packing up?”

Waving his cigarette hand at Paul, Martin went around the counter to sit down. “Leave it t’me, man. See you on Wednesday.”

Calling goodbye over his shoulder, Paul clattered down the stairs. Outside it was just as blustery as that morning, the clouds rolling in strongly, the air hitched with the threat of rain. _Typical Liverpool,_ he thought fondly. The walk to the college didn’t take that long, but he always left with enough time to grab some food before class started at six thirty.

One year: that was all. One year until Paul could pack up the gig at NEMS, say goodbye to his casual music lessons, and slide into a job at some school, this time on the other side of the desk. It was a respectable profession, one that would get him a nice, non-council house in the suburbs, maybe even a car, a wife, a kid or two. At least, that was what he’d gotten around for Jim’s sake. Truth was, Paul just wanted some freedom. A small flat, holidays off, maybe even enough time to start writing songs again. The fact he genuinely loved teaching was just a bonus; it certainly beat being a doctor. George would say he couldn’t put on a sticking plaster without getting nauseous, which was quite harsh coming from a lad who’d once shed a single, dramatic tear when he dropped his oversize guitar on his foot.

Paul had a cuppa and a buttie at a corner café. He was another faceless figure in a drab tide of office workers and minimum wage earners, all of them in tired, cheap clothing, sipping quietly at their tea and having one last cigarette before heading home. Paul sat at a table by a steamed-up window and tried to go over the work for his night class, but his mind was only on half the job.

Hard to believe that Martin was getting hitched. Well, not _so_ hard; he was a nice enough bloke. But he was late, often had stains on his clothes, tended to drop cigarette ash down his front when he got carried away talking, and had a habit of hitching up his glasses and peering from beneath a shelf of ginger hair like an outsized comic strip sidekick. Paul had never met this Anne, but he could imagine what she’d be like. Blonde hair, big eyes, polite smile. A hairdresser, probably, or a secretary. They all were, at this age. Paul’s mates and their birds had gone from spiking coffee at the Casbah to getting up at six for the seven o’clock bus to work.

They were nineteen – then they weren’t. Real life had reared its ugly mug and sent them diving into proper occupations whether they were ready for it or not. No more half-arsed bands with your mates; no more staggering home, tipsy on cheap pints; no more leather jackets. Somewhere along the line Paul had slipped into the current with the rest of them. He couldn’t even remember it happening.

Paul stubbed out his cig and packed away his things, steeling himself against the sour taste of discontent on his tongue.

He had a good job. He was going to be a teacher. He’d even buy a car. There was nothing more he needed, and the sooner he remembered that, the better.

* * *

The last bus wheezed up to the end of Forthlin Road. Outside the night was dark and murky, having rained the past few hours Paul was in class. He thanked the bus driver, got off, and started trudging up towards home. In the gloom he spied the upstairs bedroom light; and when he drew closer, the front curtains glowed from the television screen. Paul opened the front gate, which squeaked, and let himself in the front door.

Jim was sitting just inside the living room, his large armchair squashed in a corner with its back to the door. The television played mutely on the other side of the room; in its stead Jim had on an old record, which he was listening to as he smoked his pipe.

“Hi, Dad,” Paul said, closing the door. He started taking off his jackets as Jim leaned around the side of his chair.

“Alright, my son,” he said warmly. “How’s the diploma coming?”

“Slowly but surely,” Paul replied, tone light. He came into the living room to rest his holdall on the back of the settee. Some soap was playing on the television, two tiny black and white figures having an argument in a kitchen. “Where’s Mike?”

“Out,” Jim replied. His legs were crossed at the ankle, one hand on the book in his lap. He took a deep lungful of tobacco and exhaled steadily, looking up at Paul. When Paul caught his eye, Jim motioned towards the record player. “Hear what I found.”

With all the tinny elegance of a home recording came Paul and George’s first-ever effort. _I’ll do anything you want me to,_ sixteen-year-old Paul sang earnestly, _if you’ll be true to me._

“Not a bad effort,” Jim surmised.

“Dad, please.” Grimacing, Paul tried to tune it out. He and George had saved for _weeks_ to get a scrappy ten inch to record it on; George ended up having to beg some money from one of his brothers. The result was frankly embarrassing – a relic of when Paul was wide-eyed and brimming with hope, thinking he and George were going to go on and do Great Things. It’d been around the time a local band, The Quarryman or something, had been doing the rounds of a few local gatherings. Apparently, the lead singer had really been something, an older boy with fearsome Ted looks who allegedly carried a knife and had once, according to local legend, punched a teacher in the nose. George had gone to see them and had been enraptured for ages afterward. Paul couldn’t even remember why he’d never bothered to go to one of their shows. Probably too busy trying to strain out something trite like _In Spite of All the Danger._

Paul wanted to turn the player off. “Why are ye listening to that, anyway? It’s bloody terrible.”

“Language,” Jim said, puffing on his pipe. “I found it here, hidden with all of my records. If it’s so secret, go hide it.”

 _I’ll keep all the others from knocking at your door..._ “Don’t worry about it,” Paul muttered. He picked up his holdall and left to go into the kitchen.

Mechanically Paul made himself a cup of tea. From the sitting room drifted the sound of George’s guitar, so sure and strong despite his age. Paul’s own voice swept sweetly through the melody, deceptively innocent despite the confusion he’d felt at the time. Even George thought the song was about some girl at school; he’d probably never look at Paul again if he realized the truth.

He’d been staring at the tea for a solid minute. Paul forced himself to get rid of the tea bags and went in to give a cup to Jim, who was immersed in a pipe fog. Taking his own cup to his room, his mind drifted back to those adolescent lyrics, the simple way they’d been constructed. When he closed the door behind him, Paul put the cup down on the desk and pulled out his work from class. He turned on the desk light and sat down.

His room was much the same as it’d been when he was a kid. A bookshelf full of adventure books and music score sheets was crammed in one corner, his single bed in the other. Wedged between, beneath the window, was his desk, which used to be littered with scraps of song lyrics and exercise books from school, the back of which were filled with doodles. Now it was as plain as a monastery: some copies of _Merseybeat,_ study books from the college, a couple of poetry books he’d borrowed, a pot of pens. It seemed to Paul, in the light of his lamp, as otherworldly and foreign as if he’d wandered into someone else’s bedroom.

Getting ahead of his work would take his mind off things. Taking a fortifying sip of tea and lighting a cigarette, Paul opened his notebook to the class he’d had this evening. Holding his cigarette up by his head, Paul tried to read.

 _[I’ve been traveling night and day, I’ve been running all the way.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaDB7h9ZN3M) _ Paul realized he was tapping his pen to the beat and forced himself to stop. Frowning, he shifted his weight and started at the top of the paragraph.

 _Baby, trying to get to you… In spite of all the heartache, that you may cause me…_ Fucking hell. Taking a sharp suck of his cigarette, Paul shut off the confused mix of his song and Elvis’ and made himself think of Geography or whatever the lesson had been on. _Concentrate,_ he thought angrily.

George had wanted them to keep playing. _We’re getting really good, Paul,_ he said in that new low tone, his voice having dropped despite being fifteen and gangly. He blinked beneath those big, black brows and strummed a chord as if to illustrate the point. _Why give that up?_

 _Because of my father,_ Paul remembered wanting to say, or yell. _I can’t be in a band for the rest of me life! What are we playin’ at, thinkin’ we’ll be famous?_ No, far more sensible to get a proper job, earn a decent wage, keep your head down, do as they say. Paul had said something breezy about school, final exams or some other shite, anything to get George to look away and shrug. If Paul said no, that meant no.

Thinking about George made him feel uneasily nostalgic; and when he got like this, Paul had a mad desire to go through his drawers to find that stack of notebooks crammed with half-finished songs and naïve lyrics, all about love and holding hands and _kissing you,_ _boy, I really wanna…_ Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Paul leaned back slowly in his seat. His cigarette smouldered between his fingers, a long trail of smoke slithering up towards the ceiling. Downstairs he heard Jim getting ready for bed: locking the door, turning off lights, coughing as he shuffled along the hallway. He smoked in silence until the cig was a nub down to his knuckles, then he dropped it in his cold cup of tea, and went out into the hallway.

The house was hushed and dim. A sliver of light from beneath Jim’s doorway illuminated part of the hall. Knowing his father would be up with a penny novel until late, Paul turned on the lamp by the phone, then leaned against the wall to dial George’s number.

Like Paul, George still lived at home. Unlike Paul, George had had an apprenticeship since he was sixteen, near a year to the day when Paul put his guitar away in his case and gave George an apologetic smile. Since then George had become a proper electrician, earning a wage that let him go halves in a van that he used for work. The first time Paul had seen the thing, his first thought had been _that’ll be handy to move the gear around,_ before he remembered that they didn’t play music anymore.

The phone rang for a long moment before it was picked up. George’s voice, low and cautious, went, “Hullo?”

Paul smiled suddenly, ducking his head to look at the carpet. “Hi, George, it’s me. How are ye?”

“Oh, hi, Paul,” George replied, swinging into a more genial tone. There was a rustling, with George saying as if from a distance, “It’s Paul,” before he brought the receiver closer to his mouth. “Alright?”

“Still wiring shops?”

“If you’re still sellin’ records. In need of bail money, then?”

“Only if the judge won’t grant me a reprieve.” Paul paused, working himself up. He said slowly, “I’m sorry for going dark on ye, Harrison. Don’t know where me head was at.”

After a beat, George made a conciliatory noise. Paul could almost see him now: sitting on the stool by the Harrison’s kitchen phone, staring at the clock on the opposite wall, the television in the other room burbling quietly in the background. They’d spent enough afternoons like this, back when they were joined at the hip, Paul phoning him with an urgent question about chords, George replying in that reliable, measured manner.

“S’alright, Paul. At least I know you’re alive now. How’s school?”

“Boring,” Paul answered suddenly, honesty tasting like a gulp of fresh air. He put a hand in his pocket and leaned more fully against the wall, listening to the familiar sound of George’s breathing. “M’going out of my mind, to be honest. Feel like painting the town?”

“Aye, if you like.” George thought for a moment. “How’s tomorrow? I knock off at six. Could meet ye at Ye Cracke.”

The pub where they’d spent half their adolescence. He had a sudden image of dutifully rubbing dirt onto George’s top lip and standing back to assess him, hoping they’d get served. In the end, Paul had chatted to an older lad who had spot them drinks, which they’d sipped furtively in the back until their curfew came ‘round. The thought of going back there was strangely repellent. “How about something closer? The Iron Door’s close where I am. Reckon you could get there?”

“Where’s that, near the Cavern?”

“Yeah, on Temple. Is that alright?”

“Fine by me,” George replied calmly. “I’ll drop the van first. You’re buying.”

“First round,” Paul objected.

Laughing shortly, George said, “Fine. Listen, I’ve got t’go. _Coronation_ ’s on, and Maureen’s mad fer it.”

His ears pricked up at the name, but Paul decided to file it away for later. “Alright, then,” he said, smirking. “Don’t do anything I won’t do, d’ye hear?”

“Hold her hand and sing her silly love songs?” George quipped. “I’ve got that covered, mate. Be seein’ you.”

“Alright. And – George?” Paul fidgeted with the receiver for a moment. “I’m sorry for being a shit friend. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

The huff down the line was George smiling in that faintly bewildered way he had, as if you were a daft git for even going there. “You’re getting soft, Paul. Bye.”

* * *

Working at NEMS was more flexible than Paul had first thought. At the interview Brian had made it sound as if he’d be at every beck and call, rushing in at all hours to answer emergency questions about records. It turned out that the fast paced was reserved for Brian’s band management business, which he ran on the side and out of the front office at Moorfields. To date the biggest emergency Paul had had to handle involved a shipment of Rory Storm’s first LP, which had been pressed in Hamburg or somewhere and turned up three weeks early.

When Paul had awkwardly explained his night school situation, Brian had listened with a characteristic distant expression, like he was half here and half elsewhere in Liverpool, ferreting out the latest “Merseybeat” sound (which to Paul, if you asked him, was a load of rubbish).  Nevertheless, Brian had nodded quickly, and said, “Teaching? Very good, very good. No problem, Paul, really,” and granted him reprieve from working Wednesday mornings, and Friday he had off. The rest of the time he had to go straight from work to the city college, but having one and half days free was (Paul could reluctantly admit) rather decent of Brian.

Paul awoke to a silent house. Mike was at school, or so they all hoped, and Jim was at work. Even though Paul had offered to help with expenses – he’d even taken to leaving the money in plain envelopes like some sort of Fleming novel – but Jim wouldn’t have it. Paul had won, in the end, whittling down his father’s resolve as was his way, but most his wages were his own.

He spent the morning smoking his way through his school work. If a student is accosted by another, what is the capital of Russia, and so on, until eleven o’clock. Conscious that he was dressing both for work and for meeting George, Paul relented and put on a black turtleneck and a pair of dark trousers. If he turned up in his white button-up, George would laugh him out onto the street.

The rain had abated to a steady drizzle, curling Paul’s hair at the ends as he hurried down the street, collar turned up against the cold drift. He was thinking about that evening, and whether they’d go all out for an all-nighter at the Cavern, when he turned into Moorfields and promptly noticed a couple of blokes standing on the other side of the street.

They’d caught his eye simply because, if he had to guess the personification of the word _loitering,_ they’d fit the bill. They were hunched beneath a shop awning, smoking. Paul had good eyesight, but at this distance he could only make out the dark blues of a labourer. One of them had something affixed to his front, a badge or something, and his cap was pulled down low over a sloping nose. Uneasily, Paul looked away and hauled open the door to NEMS. As he thumped up the stairs, Brian’s voice sounded from the back office: “Is that you, Paul?”

“Morning,” Paul called back. The shop was empty save for the Hurricane’s latest track, which made the discreet speakers in the corners shudder with the force of that famous backbeat. He pulled off his jacket and looked up to find Brian peering around the door to his office. A cigarette smouldered between his fingers.

“Where is Martin?” Brian demanded. “He was due back at,” he glanced at a tasteful little watch, “twelve. It’s twelve fifteen. Have you heard from him?”

“No, not really,” Paul replied coolly, hanging up his jacket. “M’sure he’s on his way, though, sir.”

“You’ve either heard from him or you haven’t,” he pointed out tartly. “Well, if he calls, tell him to hurry.” Brian made to duck back into his office, then stuck his head out again. “And when he arrives, tell him I want to see him.” He closed the door with a fussy snap.

Rolling his eyes to himself, Paul sat down behind the counter. He’d just started resetting the receipt machine when the front door slammed closed, and a series of angry footsteps on the stairs made him look up, frowning.

The bloke who came into sight was out of breath. From beneath a flat cap his hair, which Paul noticed distantly was almost auburn, curled fluffily around sharp-angled eyes. There was an air of arrogance about him that was compounded by the clear planes of his face; were it not for the way his intense gaze pinned Paul, he might have appeared cool and composed as a statue.

An alarming spike in Paul’s gut jerked him into action. He swallowed past his dry mouth and nodded in greeting. “Alright?”

Despite his cheeks, which were pinched with cold, and the scent of cigarette smoke, salt, and rain that clung to his long limbs, the customer looked at him in a way that Paul found slightly unsettling. They watched each other for a long moment before the corner of the bloke’s mouth quirked up.

“Alright,” he replied lowly.

Struck by the timbre of his voice, which was roughened and warm, as Scouse as it came, Paul licked his lips quickly. He put on a look of polite interest and said, “Looking for something?”

“Maybe.” He held Paul’s gaze for a moment longer before turning away. Paul watched him surreptitiously as he wandered down the rows of trolleys, hands in pockets, looking down at the stacks of records. He moved slowly, his slender waist accentuated by the fit of his overalls; which, Paul noticed, were scuffed with something dark, like oil or coal. Even his hands, when he reached out to flick through the sleeves, were large and rough. Paul found himself thinking vaguely of callouses and blunt nails. Jerking his eyes away, Paul looked back down at the receipt machine.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the muffled crescendo of the Hurricanes’ song, the clack of records as the guy looked through them, and the splatter of rain on the windowpanes. After an agonizing while, during which Paul contemplated everything from going around to talk to the bloke to lighting up a cigarette just for something to do, he resumed punching in keys. As the machine shuttered and spat out yesterday’s takings, the song of the Hurricanes faded and the record player ticked over.

Spinning around on his stool, Paul rolled over to the turntable in the corner. Martin always put on folk things or, if he were feeling daring, some country and Western. Flicking through the few records they kept behind the counter, Paul pulled one out and turned the needle over. The [opening chords](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbFz5EzhSjM) to Elvis’ _I Want You, I Need You, I Love You_ drifted through the speakers.

“What, no _Blue Hawaii_?”

Startled, Paul turned around. The bloke was standing across the counter, smirking. He’d taken off his cap and shoved it in one of the pockets of his overalls, and his mussed hair was damp against his forehead. His eyes were light and warm as they assessed Paul, who flushed beneath the scrutiny.

“I prefer his earlier stuff,” Paul replied, sounding somewhat defensive. He went back over to the counter.

“He sold out,” the bloke said derisively. “Sad and fat. No soul t’be found now.”

Surprised, Paul said, “He should have called it ‘Yer Blues’ and had away with it.”

The bloke barked out a laugh, tipping his head back as he did so. When he grinned at Paul, something tangled and hot grew in Paul’s chest. “’Blue Mooning’, even.”

“Well, you know what they say about the army,” Paul quipped.

“What, the boy’s got a mouth on him!” Grin fading, the bloke leaned an elbow on the counter and gave Paul a steady look. “How long you been workin’ here, then?”

“A few months,” Paul replied honestly. Conscious that Brian was still in the building, he added, “It’s a good place to work.”

Snorting, he said, “Aye, I’ll bet it beats the docks.”

Paul gestured with one hand. “Found anything you like, by the way? If it’s not here we’ll order it in for you.”

The bloke smirked again, as if Paul had said something cute. He blinked slowly, those eyes permanently at half-mast in a way that made Paul think of convoluted things, tangled sheets and so forth, and Paul smiled, embarrassed.

“No,” he replied languidly, tugging those eyes away to scan the shop. Outside, the rain started to come down harder, his profile stark against the silver light coming in from the windows. “I didn’t come for a record, anyroad.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Right, then. Well – if there’s anything I can do…?”

As the bloke opened his mouth to reply, the front door opened and closed, sending up a gust of cool air. Paul’s profile prickled with the weight of the bloke’s gaze as he watched Martin clattering into the shop, looking like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

“Sorry, m’sorry!” Gasping, Martin doubled over and coughed, trying to draw in breath. Straightening up, he dragged a hand through his hair. “There’s another bloody demonstration up the road –“

“You what?” The bloke rounded on Martin in a flash. Visibly shrinking away, Martin’s eyes widened.

“There’s, ah, a demonst—“

The bloke growled. “Christ, they’re fuckin’ useless!” He tossed an angry glance at Paul then went charging past Martin.

The thumping on the stairs seemed to shake the building. When the front door slammed closed, Paul found himself still blinking at the space where he’d stood. He met Martin’s gaze.

“Welcome back,” Paul said wryly.

Martin looked shell-shocked. “Interesting fella.” Running another hand through his hair, he started across the shop and around the counter. As if on cue, Brian’s door swung open.

“What on Earth is that – _Mister Brown.”_

His protestations falling on deaf ears, Martin let himself be drawn into Brian’s office with one crooked finger. He looked around to give Paul a helpless look, who winked elaborately and mouthed, _Good luck!_

* * *

The Iron Door was one of Liverpool’s latest ventures: a converted warehouse with claustrophobic standing tables, an enormous sticky bar around one of the middle pillars, and roughshod wooden floorboards that were tacky with a layer of spilled lager. Most of Paul’s friends flocked to places like The Twisted Wheel or the Sink Club, joints where the lighting was bad, the music loud, and the dancing boisterous. In comparison, the Iron Door drew a rougher, more working-class crowd. As he lingered outside, smoking a cigarette, Paul felt uncharacteristically self-conscious.

Nodding a cautious hello to the steady stream of dockworkers coming in after their shift, Paul kept an eye out for that familiar dark mop-top. When George at last rounded the corner, twilight had settled around them, the street-lights pinpricking orange in the gloom.

Paul grinned widely. Chucking his cig away, Paul watched George approach. “Alright, Georgie?” he said once George was in earshot.

George at twenty looked much the same as George at fifteen. Tall and slender, he’d changed out of his electrician’s overalls and strode along like a long-legged water bird. If he was bothered by Paul calling him last night in such a sudden and desperate mood, he didn’t show it. Instead he looked for all the world as if they were meeting at the bus stop after school.

“How’s it goin’,” George said, smiling sedately. “You’re looking sharp, Paul. Expectin’ company?”

“What, this?” Paul adjusted his jacket with a modest look, then smiled and jerked his head towards the large entrance of the pub. “Ready to get on it? You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“I bet.” George followed Paul inside. They were immediately suffused with cigarette smoke and the pungent scent of good, heavy beer, the sort that any Liverpudlian in his right mind would stick his head under the tap for. Their conversation momentarily paused, they pushed through the growing after-work crowd towards the bar. After Paul had bought them both a pint, they found a spare standing table.

Taking a sip from the head, George looked across at Paul in a way that made him smile warmly.

“I’m glad you’re here, mate,” Paul admitted.

Not one to beat around the bush, George said, “Aye, it’s only been a thousand years. You’ve not gone and married without tellin’ me, have ye?”

Snorting, Paul sipped his pint. “Dream on. I’d have t’find a bird who didn’t bore me senseless, first.”

“Always the charmer.” George shook his head and smiled.

“Anyroad, what about you?” Meeting George’s surprised look, Paul raised his eyebrows knowingly. “’Maureen’? Who’s she when she’s at home?” When George turned to his pint, Paul added, “Well, when she’s at _her_ home and not trapped in yer bed.”

“S’not like that,” he replied with a wry smile. “Maureen’s nice. Funny. She’s a hairdresser, y’know.”

 _Blonde too, I bet,_ Paul thought. “Oh right,” he said, “how’d ye meet her then? Wild nights at Blacklers?”

He hadn’t anticipated the tips of George’s ears to redden slightly. Intrigued, Paul smirked at him from across the table. “Well, well, well.”

“It’s _not_ like that,” George repeated, and Paul teased, “Me think the boy doth protest too much –“

“Fine,” he huffed. “I won’t change y’mind. She’s a good girl. You could meet her, if y’wanted to.”

Just as Paul was about to delicately diffuse that idea, there came a rumble from the far end of the room. Already the place was packed, the crowd made up of workers and large men in stained shirts. A few heads turned towards the doors, although Paul couldn’t see much through the crush of people, most of them standing at tables like he and George. Someone yelled something to a volley of laughter. He and George looked at each other and shrugged.

“Been meaning t’ask,” George started, leaning forward so they could hear each other over the din. “Why this place? Not really your scene, Paul.”

If it were anyone else, Paul might have fobbed him off with some tale about wanting to try somewhere new. He stalled, taking a long sip of lager, before he bit his lip and said intently, “Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

George frowned. “Come again?”

“Like you’re drowning,” Paul pressed. “I feel – I don’t know, like sometimes it’s all the same. What I’m doing, with my life, like, and I want to…” He broke off abruptly, needing a cigarette. George watched him light one, waving it away when Paul offered him the pack. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Paul snapped his lighter shut and lapsed into a miserable silence.

They sipped at their drinks for a long moment. George cleared his throat. “Why don’t we start playing again?”

Paul stared at him. “What? No.”

“It’s obvious y’need music, Paul,” George said patiently. “If it’ll help ye out of this rut, I’ll volunteer. You need to do things that make you happy.”

“I am happy,” Paul said shortly.

“I can see that,” George said, and Paul scowled. “Forget it.”

“How long ‘ave I known you,” he continued, somewhat pedantically. “You’re a musician, Paul. Always have been. It’s unnatural to turn something like that off. You’re only torturing yourself.”

Paul took a sharp drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Working at a record store? Come on, Paul.” George, to his credit, merely sounded gently exasperated, as if Paul were the biggest dolt alive for denying himself this. But George just didn’t get it. He had two brothers who had good jobs, families; he had two parents that loved and cared for him. Paul’s life was split in two, diluted. Music took up too much space.

Shifting closer, George nudged their elbows together. “I’ll do a run ‘round, see who I can pick up. Eh? Or we could play by ourselves.” With a clumsy intensity, he said, “You’re my friend, Paul; you’re family. Alright?”

Placating George was better than the alternative. Smiling wanly, Paul stubbed out his cigarette. “Alright, George. Thanks.”

It was impossible to tell whether George bought it, but he said, “Don’t mention it,” and shifted the conversation onto news from people they used to go to school with. Paul listened with half an ear, humming at the appropriate moments, sipping his lager, thinking about how he could extricate himself from George’s plan – _Oh, I remembered that I lost my guitar_ or _Did I tell you I fell down, hit me head, and am perpetually unable to play music? Yeah, shame, I know –_ when a loud voice sounded behind him.

The cadence tugged at his memory. Frowning, Paul turned around to look through the crowd. For a moment he couldn’t see anyone untoward, but then the press shifted, and he spied a familiar figure not two tables across.

His pulse doubled. Looking quickly back at his drink, Paul ignored George at his side going, “Y’alright, Paul?”

“Thought I saw someone,” Paul said calmly. “S’nothing. You were saying?”

“’Ey up,” George said indistinctly. He looked at George’s profile then followed his gaze. Staring at them both, surrounded by other men in dark overalls, was the bloke from this morning.

The instant their eyes met something hot and nervous shot through his veins. Paul stared at him, confused, the hand on his pint glass growing clammy. He licked his lips then tore himself away, concentrating instead on the vestige of foam of his drink.

“Y’sure you don’t know him, Paul?” George shifted his weight beside him, evidently looking away from the bloke to refocus on the side of Paul’s face. His skin prickled, like the bloke was still watching them. “He looks like ‘e knows you.”

“Just a customer,” Paul muttered and took a sip of beer.

“Well, he’s coming over,” George reported placidly. Paul refused to acknowledge this in any way, shape, or form. It was only when he sensed another body join them at the table that he made himself look up into those hazel eyes.

The bloke looked a little glassy, as if he were already a couple of drinks down. There was something uncomfortably arousing about the way he stared at Paul, his mouth parted just slightly, his skin flushed from the warmth of the room. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing the damp hollow at the base of his throat, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his overalls up to show off lean, muscled forearms. There was a badge pinned to the front of his uniform that read ["RIGHT TO WORK" - NO WORKERS RIGHTS.](https://img0.etsystatic.com/162/0/10337483/il_340x270.1134548202_98f6.jpg)

Paul swallowed and looked away to take a long pull of beer.

“I know you,” the bloke said loudly. He leaned against the table across from Paul, prompting their gaze to meet again. “You’re Elvis.”

George stirred, as if in humour, as Paul said, “Oh, hi again.”

“You a mod, then?” At Paul’s puzzled look, the bloke plucked the collar of his own shirt, indicating Paul’s black turtleneck. Paul flushed.

“Not really.”

“A rocker?”

“A mocker,” George quipped. The bloke didn’t even look at him.

“What’s someone like you doin’ ‘ere?” He watched Paul with those bedroom eyes, so dark beneath his fringe that Paul’s skin prickled. “Wouldn’t pick ye for a sympathiser.”

“What?” Paul glanced at the bloke’s badge. “Uh, I’m not. I don’t think. We just wanted a drink.”

“Ye should be,” he pressed, suddenly heated. “They’re a bunch of fuckin’ pigs. Sittin’ around while we do all the fuckin’ work. Turned that place into a bloody farmyard, haven’t they!” Then, to Paul’s intense embarrassment, he squealed.

A couple of the men closest cheered. Grinning blurrily, the bloke waved them away. He looked at Paul, tilted his head, and said in a normal tone of voice, “Ye didn’t answer me question, son. What’s someone like _you_ doin’ _here.”_

“Having a drink?” Paul tried, raising an eyebrow. He gestured at the bloke’s own empty pint glass. “I see you’ve got one up on us, though.”

“Is that code for ‘will ye buy me one’?” And before Paul could answer, the bloke turned around and bawled into the throng, “Get me a coupla pints, would ye!”

“Aye, John,” came an indistinct reply. Paul wondered what the likelihood would be of bursting into flames and disappearing in a puff of smoke. The intensity of the guy’s gaze was almost too much to bear. He glanced up, made the mistake of their eyes meeting, then busied himself in finishing his pint. When two more glasses miraculously appeared on their sticky table, the bloke handed one to him with solemn ceremony.

“Mod or not,” he continued, “ye like music?”

“Obsessed, more like,” George interjected. Paul speared him with a look and accepted the new drink with a short smile.

“As it happens,” he said. “I don’t work in a record shop for nothin’.”

The wry smile that warmed the guy’s mouth was positively obscene. “I’d say, son. The name’s John.” He held out a hand. When they shook, Paul noticed in a distant, helpless sort of way that his palm was work-rough and warm. John looked at him intently. “John Lennon.”

“Paul McCartney,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “How’d ye do.”

“Get you!” John scoffed. They released each other’s hand and he immediately took a drink from his pint, eyes glittering. “Very _la-di-da._ Practice that one in the mirror, do ye?”

“Only sometimes. The rest of the time I work on me wave.”

“Aye, Queen like,” John said, and Paul dutifully mimicked waving to the masses. Snorting, John said, “You’d suit a dress, an’ all.”

Feeling his cheeks burn, Paul commented, “Hard to play in a dress.”

“Better add it to your practice session,” John leered. Tearing his eyes away from Paul, he acknowledged George for the first time. They looked at each other for a prolonged moment. George didn’t look impressed. John blinked at him, then turned his attention back to Paul.

“This kid yours, McCartney?”

The sound of his name in John’s brogue made something slither down his spine. Paul hid his grin in a drink of beer.

“How are ye,” George said, ever the stoic. Introducing himself, he managed to wring a handshake out of John, who said, “Alright?” before shifting his gaze back to Paul. “What d’ye play, then?”

John’s conversation roused something in him, a flare of excitement that he tamped down quick as it came. There was an edge of smugness to his tone when he said, “Piano, trumpet, and rhythm guitar.”

“No good, McCartney!” John exclaimed, smacking the table for emphasis. When Paul laughed, “No?” he grinned and said, “I play rhythm. Can’t have two rhythmists together, can ye? Makes no sense.”

“So?” Paul said mildly. “Depends on how good a player ye are.”

“Go on, then, how good are ye.” A challenging flicker entered John’s expression. He took a deep gulp of beer and, when he put it back on the table with a dull thud, watched Paul intently.

“Trade secret.”

“Suppose I’ll have t’hear for meself.”

Paul shrugged. “Suppose so.”

“Right.” John’s eyes gleamed. He leaned forward and when he spoke it was with all the authority of someone who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it. “Play me somethin’. And make it good.”

“With me invisible guitar?” Paul thought about stretching the joke out, miming tuning up and strumming, but settled for pulling out his pack of cigarettes. The look that John gave him as he lit up made his blood stir. “Maybe later.”

John stared at him for a moment longer. When he pulled back, Paul had half a mind to follow. “I’ll hold ye to that,” he promised, an air of finality about him. “Y’owe me a pint, anyroad.”

“Oh, was this t’keep me talking?” Paul looked at his beer in mock surprise.

“Not that kinda girl, McCartney?”

“Not usually,” Paul said lightly. John barked out a laugh. They shared a look across the table. Paul busied himself with smoking.

“’Ang on,” George interrupted, just as John was staring at Paul in a way that Dot never, ever had. “Lennon. You ‘ad that band, didn’t ye? The Quarrymen?”

Straightening up, John leaned his hip against the table and studied George. “As it happens,” he replied, “why, ‘eard us play?”

“Years ago,” George confirmed. “At a fete. You were bloody good.” Heedless of the way John swelled with praise, he motioned with a finger. “You still together, then? Wouldn’t mind hearing you again.”

Something quick and dark flashed across John’s expression. His mouth thinned. “No,” he replied shortly. After a beat, he added, “M’in another band now. We’re playing in a coupla nights at the Sink Club. Proper rock n’ roll, not any of this washed-up Hurricanes crap.” Catching Paul’s eyes, John said, “Ye should come.”

Exhaling a stream of smoke, Paul shrugged. “Alright. When?”

“Friday,” John said. “Eight-ish or something, can’t remember. You’ll be there?” This was directed only at Paul, who felt a hidden weight to those words. They hung suspended between them for a long moment, during which Paul smoked contemplatively and gazed steadily at John.

“Might do,” he said at last. John smirked, and Paul wondered suddenly why this all felt like a flippant game, dodging each other’s footsteps, unable to look away from each other for a moment before he felt hot and nervous. He bit his lip and added casually, “If I can make it.”

“I’ll look for ye.” John tugged his eyes away. He pushed away from the table, pint in hand, and regarded them both. “Tally-ho, lads. Revolution don’t come from sittin’ about.” Then he turned away and disappeared into the crowd. Paul stared after him.

“Bloody hell,” George said at his side. “He’s a piece of work.”

“I know,” Paul said, still looking at John’s retreating back. A crowd of men eclipsed him from view, and Paul reluctantly looked back at George, who had one eyebrow raised. “What?” Paul bristled.

“One more drink and you _would_ be that kind of girl, Paul,” he joked.

“Bugger off,” Paul snapped, although he found himself flushing. It felt as if John’s gaze had burned into his skin, had burrowed beneath to simmer there like a bruise. Paul filtered through their conversation, lingering on each steady look and suggestive comment.

 _John Lennon,_ he’d said, casual as could be, his hand firm and warm, those honeyed eyes holding Paul for a beat longer than necessary.

Paul felt something anticipatory curl low in his belly.

 _Oh, no,_ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me [over on tumblr.](stonedlennon.tumblr.com) i also have [an inspiration tag](http://stonedlennon.tumblr.com/tagged/v%3A-only-a-northern-song) for this fic, which you're more than welcome to check out. please do leave kudos and please comment and let me know what precisely you liked, what you think, any questions you might have.. i love discussing my work, so please don't hesitate! the next installment will be up shortly x


	2. Chapter 2

The next evening when Paul came home from work, Mike was glumly ironing one of Jim’s shirts in front of the television. Closing the door behind him, Paul undid his jacket with one hand and pushed some damp hair out of his eyes with the other. “Where’s Dad?”

Mike, who looked startlingly young in one of Paul’s old red jumpers, shot him a sulky look and pressed the collar of a white shirt. “It’s council night,” he reminded Paul coldly. “He won’t be back ‘til late. Where’ve you been?”

As the last part of that sentence had degenerated into a whine, Paul felt justified in raising his eyebrows and backing out of the room. Hanging up his jacket, he then went across the hall into the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob. When Mike bothered at him again, Paul called belatedly through to the living room, “Work, obviously.”

“Can you finish this?” Mike said indistinctly. “I have to meet Gloria and I’m fucking late.”

“Language,” Paul admonished, coming in to lean against the doorway to the living room. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin up. “Who’s Gloria?”

Colouring, Mike muttered, “Never you mind,” which only made Paul grin and say, “Don’t tell me you’ve tricked some bird into going _out_ with ye.”

“That so hard to believe? I’m not a lonely swot like you.”

“As it happens, I’m going out tomorrow.” The kettle whistled behind him. Paul went to pour himself a cup of tea, then came back to lean against the doorframe. Mike caught sight of his tea and said snidely, “Oh, ta, thanks, Paul. Ye shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe if ye weren’t such a shit,” Paul reminded him. He sipped at his cup. “Anyroad, ye didn’t say. Who’s Gloria?”

“A _girl,”_ Mike replied with adolescent exasperation. “Where are you goin’, then? You never go anywhere.”

Beyond the lip of the ironing board, Lucy was making a hash of supper. Paul watched the episode vaguely, breathing in the calming scent of bergamot and the starch Mike was using on the shirts. “The Sink Club,” he replied once the episode went into an advert break. He looked up at Mike, who had one eyebrow raised and was smirking, and said, “What?”

“Ye really are a twat,” Mike said tartly. “I’ll bet ye don’t even know how t’get _in.”_

“Through the front door?” Paul suggested.

“It’s called _The Sink Club.”_ When Paul remained blank, Mike sighed dramatically. Steam rose in great billows from where he was pressing a shirt arm. “So… ye don’t just _walk in.”_

Christ, had Paul been like Mike at his age? Paul narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. “Speak in bloody English, Mike, or I’ll say you’re off with the Teds again.”

Jim McCartney had an enduring distrust for anyone who bucked the system. In his younger days, Paul had managed to skirt beneath the radar, possibly due to George’s reassuring presence and Paul’s ability to conjure elaborate excuses at the drop of a hat. With Mike it was a constant challenge. Mike had grown from an eager boy into a sullen adolescent, and somewhere along the line his conversations with their father, in the increasing moments when they weren’t civil, had become fraught with tension. Slammed doors, abandoned dinner plates, strained silences. For a while Paul had filled the gap with light conversation; he didn’t anymore.

“Bugger off,” Mike muttered darkly.

“You’re burning the cuff.”

“Oh, shit!” He whisked the shirt away to safety. Inspecting the sleeve, Mike said, “Thanks.”

Paul’s interest was piqued, though he’d never admit it. “So,” he started, coming further into the room with his cup of tea. “How do I get in, then?”

“It’s called the Sink Club,” Mike repeated, rubbing a thumb over the shiny imprint the iron had left. “You need a plug. Obviously.”

That was… surprisingly cool. Paul frowned at Mike’s profile. “How’d ye know this?”

“I get around,” he replied flippantly. When he caught Paul’s eye, Mike relented: “Gloria goes there a lot.”

“Ah, the things he’ll do for love!” Paul needled, grinning, as Mike flushed and pinched his lips to stop smiling. Once he’d resumed ironing, this time studiously, Paul said, “Give us the plug.”

“What? No!” Mike glared over the can of starch. “I need it, don’t I? Gloria’s expectin’ to go there tonight.”

“I’ll need it tomorrow, you absolute knobhead. Care and share, go on.”

“If I do,” Mike said with an industrious glitter in his expression, “what will ye give me?”

“A bollocking,” Paul replied seriously.

After a lengthy negotiation, which ended with Mike being pressed against the settee shouting, _Alright, you arsehole, now get off me!,_ Paul went up to do some college work before he started supper. As the potatoes were boiling on the hob, he phoned George to rally him ‘round for tomorrow night. Paul had vaguely noticed at the time, although he’d become more aware of it in retrospect, that John had not been falling over himself to talk to George. Really, he’d only wanted to talk to Paul. The prospect of attending the show at the Sink Club without George’s reassuring presence was, however, not an enticing one. George had been there through all of Paul’s moods – leaving the band, the fiasco with Dot last year, anything involving his father – so it made sense for him to join Paul on yet another journey into the unknown.

“Go on,” Paul cajoled, grinning into the telephone receiver. “It’s just one gig.”

“Earlier I couldn’t get ye to listen to a record,” George deadpanned, “and now he wants to go along with that nutter Lennon.”

“He’s not a nutter.” Paul thought about it. “Is he?”

“Seeing as I’m going to his show, I should hope not.” The sound of George’s smile in his voice made Paul sigh cheerfully, “Ah, you’re a lad, Georgie.”

“I’ll want another pint for this,” he mumbled away from the receiver. There was a pause, then George said, “I’ll be right there. I should go,” he added at normal volume.

Paul had picked up on a feminine voice in the background. “Was that Maureen?” he asked slowly, grinning. “Again? Bloody hell, George.”

“Shut up, Paul,” George hissed, as Paul went, “Get you.”

Mike yelled something from his bedroom, which Paul ignored in favour of the timer in the kitchen going off. “Potatoes are on,” he said. “Oh, before I go – bring her to the show tomorrow.”

“Maureen?” George echoed dubiously. “I’m not sure, Paul. We’re not really…”

“Well if you want to keep her locked up,” Paul replied tartly. “Sorry, I should go before they boil over. See ye tomorrow.”

George huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.”

After Paul hung up and went back into the kitchen, he reflected on what George had said. Could Lennon be a nutter? He was certainly intense; one of the most intense people Paul had ever met, if he thought about it. No one was that tempestuous, that quick to rile, brash and bold and bloody loud. Until he opened his mouth, one wouldn’t peg him for that at all; there was a stilted arrogance in his half-mast eyes that inclined Paul to think John was actually quite shy.

Then again, maybe he was just making all that up. But Paul _would_ have to be thick as a plank of wood to misconstrue the flicker of electricity between them, that cautious tremor of mutual interest that had made his pulse run quick. Just thinking about those amber eyes across from his made his stomach swoop most disconcertingly.

Shifting his thoughts away before they turned dangerous, Paul focused on finishing supper. He managed to coax Mike downstairs long enough to feed him his meat and three veg before he was banging out the front door, leather jacket and Mod hair and all. After putting his Dad’s plate in the oven to keep warm, Paul mechanically went to watch television, smoking fitfully and refusing to think of those exercise books upstairs in the back of his cupboard.

 _You’re being a fool,_ he told himself, lighting a new cig in the middle of NEWS OF THE WORLD. _One conversation about music and you’re ready to drop it all._

But as Paul stared unseeingly at the man doing the weather report, his cigarette smouldering by his head, he let himself wonder for the first time in a long while whether that would really be so terrible a thing.

* * *

Much to Paul’s irritation, the next day work ran overtime.

Brian was generally very good about giving “his boys” early notice on things like shipments, especially if they concerned a record that would elicit excitement from their customers. On this one occasion, however, it was Martin who had managed to cock up. The pre-orders he’d been tasked with organizing just two days prior had run overschedule, meaning the shipment turned up at five in the afternoon instead of in the morning, when they had ample time to sort the records in accordance to Brian’s intricate, multi-coloured indexing system. When Paul had stared at the clipboard then back at the lorry driver, the bloke had merely smacked his chewing gum and said, “I just drive the van, mate. Sign here, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul grit over the telephone. He was watching the altercation between Martin and Brian from the break room, where he’d hidden to call George ahead of the night’s plans. Turning his back on Martin’s terrified expression, Paul sighed and said, “I’ll get there as soon as I can. Just thought I’d let ye know.”

“It’s alright,” George replied slowly. “Don’t reckon that Lennon fella will be too happy, mind. Come find me and Maureen when ye can, alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Paul replied, then hung up. In the middle of EASY LISTENING – NEW, Brian was dressing Martin down in a manner so august yet intense that Paul contemplated the possibility of hiding out among the tea bags forever.

The large clock on the wall had gone eight forty when they at last finished. Paul sat back on his haunches and rolled his shoulders, his eyes drifting shut. Somewhere behind him Martin was ferreting through the last box, muttering to himself. Only Brian had remained stonily silent throughout the proceedings, deigning only to leave his office door open. All the better to watch their misery from behind his large desk, Paul had thought meanly.

Opening his eyes, Paul glanced at the clock as he got to his feet. Dusting down his front, he leaned forward to peer through to where Brian was seated in the back room.

“We’re done,” he called, omitting the ‘sir’ at the last moment.

Brian emerged in the doorway. A cigarette burned in his fingers as he looked slowly between him and Martin. “Very good,” he said. “You can go. Thank you for staying behind, Paul.” Their eyes met; Brian inclined his head. “You were meeting friends this evening, weren’t you? I appreciate your work. Have a good night, won’t you.”

“Yeah, I will,” Paul replied, slightly mollified.

“I’m sorry,” Martin added. He stood up from where he’d been crouched in an aisle, looking every bit as contrite as Paul hoped he really felt. “Really, sir.”

“Yes, alright,” Brian said, abruptly turning away.

“See you next week,” Martin pressed. In lieu of a response, Brian disappeared into his office.

Paul and Martin shared a look. Together they folded up the cardboard boxes and put them away, then gathered their jackets. Paul ducked into the break room to inspect himself in the small mirror hanging on the wall. He’d intended to finish early enough to get home to change, but what he had on would have to do. He was running a comb through his hair when Martin appeared in the doorway.

“Where ye off to?”

Paul glanced at him in the mirror’s reflection and quirked his mouth. “The Sink Club. A friend of mine’s playing. Had played,” he corrected himself.

“Oh,” Martin said, deflating. “Right.”

Never did a man look so dejected. Paul finished on his hair, straightened his clothes, then put his comb away and turned to fix Martin with a look. “Come on, mate,” he said, reaching out to touch Martin’s shoulder. “No harm done, eh? Get home to Anne and have a nice night, alright.”

“Yeah.” Martin smiled humourlessly at him. “Alright. And listen – I am sorry.”

“You’ll be here next week,” Paul said encouragingly, shooting him a smile. “Who’ll keep me company?”

Cheering up, Martin said, “Point taken.” They went out into the shop, turning off lights as they did so. When they trod down the stairs and emerged onto the street, Paul immediately lit a cigarette. As he sucked down a lungful of smoke, he and Martin surveyed Liverpool on a Friday night.

The sky ran cobalt, moody as the ocean that lay like dark and wrinkled velvet between the buildings and down the steep hill towards the docks. The weather had taken a warm turn, as was wont for a seaside city. Most people hurried along, heading out to the pub or a late theatre performance, but some had evidently been on the bottle since that afternoon, and wove along singing bawdy songs. Paul could imagine John among them, his auburn hair catching the glow of a street light, his skin flushed like it had been the other night. The knowledge that Paul was going to see him again – hopefully soon – made him flush with anticipation.

He and Martin said their goodbyes. As Paul walked and smoked, he remembered the conversation he’d had with John. It felt like they’d known each other for years or from another past. There’d been a flicker of understanding between them – looking up to see John already staring at him, eyes glassy but dark with intent – that made Paul simultaneously uneasy and excited. Uneasy because he’d been here before, with a handful of other blokes, and none of them had elicited that same spike of adrenaline when their gaze met; excited because of the implication, that tenuous suggestion. _One more drink and you_ would _be that kind of girl, Paul._

The Sink Club was two blocks up from NEMS. The further Paul went into the heart of Liverpool’s night life, the more buoyant the crowd. Blokes stood outside clubs and smoked, watching birds that laughed with each other and pretended not to notice. The spring air meant jackets were off and shirts were loose; a breeze off the harbor carried the smell of spilled beer, smoke, and salt. _Like John,_ he thought suddenly.

The raucous noise pouring out of the club and into the street made Paul’s pulse pick up. A gaggle of people lingered outside beneath a discreet sign, from which THE SINK CLUB glowed red. The windows were blacked out, as most illegal clubs were, but the drift of rock n’ roll beckoned like a siren call. If you wanted rock n’ roll, this was obviously the place to get it. When Paul approached the door, he pulled out a kitchen plug on a chain to show the bloke, who nodded him in. Paul chucked away his cig and went inside.

If outside the air was close, inside it was hot as a cave. Bodies packed together, swaying in time to a Berry rendition, the scent of sweat and sticky drinks permeating the damp air. The place was dimly lit and low-ceilinged, not unlike the Cavern, although Paul noticed that the people here looked older, a little rougher. Knowing that Mike had been here made him roll his eyes.

Shoving through the crowd, Paul peered over heads for a glimpse of George. He found him standing by the bar beside a girl in a white dress; they were both sipping their drinks and watching the band onstage.

“Better late than never,” Paul said in George’s ear.

Turning around with a grin, George greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. “Thought I’d send out a search party,” he yelled back. “Here ye go.” A pint miraculously appeared on the bar counter and Paul picked it up gratefully, taking a long swig as he scanned the room.

“John here?” he asked, casual as anything.

“What?” George’s brows furrowed, then he put a hand on the girl’s waist to get her attention. When she looked about, Paul could recognize that she was fairly pretty: large, kohl-rimmed eyes, a square jaw, and a heavy dark fringe that snagged her long eyelashes. She smiled and held out a hand.

“Maureen,” she said loudly. “Ye must be Paul?”

“Nice to meet ye,” he replied, smiling at her. When she turned back to the band, Paul shared an impressed look with George.

“How much ye pay for her, then?”

“Bugger off,” George laughed, shoving at Paul’s shoulder.

“At least ye brought her along.” Sipping his pint, Paul tried to see if he could recognize anyone onstage. The band was a four-piece outfit, all dressed in white shirts with black ties. They played tightly, snappily, the lead singer jerking his head just like Berry had. “Who’s that playing?”

“Cass and the Casanovas,” George replied, leaning back into Paul’s side to make himself heard. He gestured to the drummer, who was a hard-looking fellow with a slightly manic glint in his eye. “Think I know him from around. Dunno where, though.”

The song came to a riotous finish. Paul applauded along with the crowd, who stomped their feet and howled their approval. He and George grinned at each other, the electricity in the air sparking in their veins.

“Nice lads,” a voice murmured in his ear.

Jumping a mile, Paul whipped around. John had one elbow propped on the bar, a smug grin on his face. He’d done away with the flat cap and his hair was everywhere, sticking to his damp forehead, accentuating the colour in his cheeks. Looking at his leather jacket made Paul sweat, although for entirely different reasons.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” John continued. Their eyes were pinned to each other, John’s gaze heavy and appraising. Despite the roar of the crowd as the Casanovas launched into a slick rendition of [_Stuck on You,_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVqR2PwX428) Paul could hear the cadence of John’s voice, the low, slightly rough way he spoke, the emphasised Scouse undertone. His body was long and lean, the white t-shirt clinging to his stomach where it was tucked into his drainies. Paul’s skin prickled as he took him in.

“Why’d ye say that?” Paul asked, heart loud in his throat.

John shrugged slowly. He didn’t look away. “Didn’t see ye in the crowd.”

“I was stuck at work,” Paul explained. He licked his lips briefly; John tracked the motion. “Did I miss ye play?”

Abruptly John snorted, and looked away to take a long gulp of his own pint. “Those wankers,” he said derisively. “They’d not know good music if it bit ‘em in the arse. Told ‘em where to shove it, didn’t I.” With a glitter in his expression, John surveyed him over the lip of his glass. “Brought your guitar, McCartney?”

Paul laughed in surprise. He raised an eyebrow and said playfully, “Slipped me mind, to be honest. Suppose I give ye a private show another time.”

“Suppose,” John echoed, and Paul ducked his head, grinning.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Paul tore himself away to look around at George, who glanced between them in amusement.

“Alright, Paul?” he said, then nodded at John. “How are ye. When are you on?”

“Never,” John declared vehemently. He nudged his knee to Paul’s and jerked his chin. “Gotta cig?”

“Scab,” Paul retorted, but he pulled out his pack and tapped out two cigarettes. Lighting them, he passed one to John, who took it and smiled with half-mast eyes. “Ta,” he murmured.

Dimly aware that he’d all but turned his back to George and Maureen, Paul made himself step away from John’s personal space to lean both elbows on the bar counter. They smoked and watched the band, who were building to a triumphant guitar solo by a tall bloke with bleached blonde hair. Maureen turned to whisper in George’s ear; he tilted his head to listen, a pleased smile softening his stoic features. Paul watched them in his peripheral vision. When John leaned into his side, Paul found himself returning the gentle pressure.

“They’re cosy,” John noted. “Going steady, are they?”

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Paul tipped his head in John’s direction to better make himself heard. “Think so.” At this angle, John looked even more arresting: his mouth parted softly, the cigarette smouldering between his lips, his eyelashes absurdly long. Paul’s mouth went dry.

John’s mouth quirked into a smirk. “How ‘bout you, Paulie?” He shifted so the flat of their hips were pressed together. Paul swallowed dryly, his skin flushing warm at the contact. Dropping one shoulder to curl into Paul’s side, John looked him up and down. The smoke from his cigarette curled into his fringe. “Got a girl?”

“No,” Paul replied, raising his eyebrows casually. “How about you, Johnny?”

They held each other’s gaze for a beat. Then John barked out a laugh and said, “’Johnny’. Shoulda seen that one comin’.”

“Ye should’ve known from the moment ye said ‘Paulie’,” he pointed out wryly. “Really, what’d ye expect.”

“I don’t mind it.” Plucking his cig from his lips, John exhaled a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth, one eyebrow arched. “Anyroad, I don’t believe ye.”

Paul took a sip of his pint. “I don’t care if ye do.”

Something darkened in John’s expression, and when he spoke his voice was warm with challenge. “You’re tellin’ me that with a face like yours, you’ve not got a bird willing t’sit in ye lap?”

The image sent a hot bolt to Paul’s groin. He kept composure by smoking his cigarette, but after a moment John smirked, as if he were reading Paul’s mind. It was under the influence of half a pint and a long day that Paul heard himself say, “The position’s open if you’re offering.”

John’s face fell. Alarmed, Paul opened his mouth to amend the joke, but George said something in his ear, and he turned away from John’s inscrutable expression. “Sorry?”

“I said, d’ye want another one.” George grinned at a wiry, dark-haired bloke who’d materialized in front of their little group. Over his shoulder, Paul noticed that the band was nowhere to be seen; a glance at the bloke’s shirt confirmed him as one of the players. “He’s offerin’. He says he knows John.”

“Aye, he does.” Not moving from Paul’s side, John leaned around and peered at the newcomer. “How are ye, Gus.”

“Howya, Lennon.” Gus, who looked like he’d be better suited filching crates from the back of a pickup truck than playing in a band, scanned them all one by one before settling back on John. “Heard ye left Kingsize in the lurch, like. What’re ye doin’ that for, ye fucker.”

John waved a hand in dismissal as George said, “’Kingsize’ Taylor? You play with him?”

“Past tense, son,” John replied gruffly. He was still pressed against Paul’s side, one elbow on the counter behind them, the other dragging the cigarette from his cruel mouth to spit, “You tell that mad bastard that I’ll rather take me eyes out with a spit than play backup to his fuckin’ doo-wop ensemble.”

“Well, he’s not happy,” Gus reported grimly. When a tray of drinks arrived, he distributed them evenly. Paul drained his glass, took the new one, and said, “Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t mention it. Anyroad, he’s only gone and cancelled the cunting gig ‘cause o’you, Lennon. Got another plan, ‘ave ye?”

“Yeah,” John drawled. “M’waitin’ for the Storm t’blow into town.”

Inexplicably, Maureen stiffened. Paul shot her a curious look as John stabbed his cigarette hand into Gus’ chest for emphasis. “Or ye could put in a good word with Cass for me. Ye owe me, son.”

Despite John’s intimidation tactics, Gus only smirked. Someone had put another record on and it blared through the overheard sound system. As if to punctuate John’s previous point, the [latest Hurricanes single](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvFSGPXjfp4) started hurtling towards its signature drum solo. Paul tapped his fingers against his pint glass as he sipped from it. Suddenly, John said, “D’ye like this?”

“Hm?” Paul swallowed. He’d not been aware they were standing so close: John blinked at him slowly, his expression set in that cool manner Paul was rapidly getting used to. Shrugging, Paul said, “Yeah, s’great. Their drummer’s bloody fast.”

“A Dingle bloke,” Gus told them, tapping the side of his nose. “Take from that what ye will.”

“Ah, shuddap, Gus,” John snapped. “You’ll set a fuckin’ cat on fire for Saturday night entertainment. Don’t you ‘Dingle’ this, ye hypocrite.”

“I’m a what?” Gus narrowed his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Get me in with Cass, then,” John said quickly. “Help me kill off Hutch, first.”

Paul choked on some beer. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“No.” Putting his cigarette, which was more stacked ash than stick, into his mouth, John closed one eye and looked at him. “He’s been bayin’ for me blood since ’61.”

“And ye did nothing to encourage this,” Paul said sarcastically. “Nothin’ at all.”

When John shook his head and smiled brightly, Paul rolled his eyes. “Anyroad,” Gus continued, discomforted by this exchange. “Word is he’s comin’ ‘round tonight. Mick said summat ‘bout a nicked guitar.”

John swore vehemently. “So what?” Paul asked. “S’not your fault he lost it.”

“’Ave some compassion.” Somehow John had wound an arm around Paul’s shoulder, and he leaned close to murmur in Paul’s ear, “Ye wouldn’t deprive a man of his guitar, now, wouldya?”

“Depends if he were a good player.” Pursing his lips, Paul gave him a pointed look. “Or if someone had stolen it.”

“Oh, fuck.” Gus looked from Paul to John. “Ye didn’t.”

“I reserve the right to remain silent,” John replied crisply.

Instead of giving him a glare that could peal paint from a wall, Gus laughed crudely. “Fuckin’ brilliant!”

“Was it worth it?” When John tilted his head at him, Paul elaborated, “I’m guessing ye did somethin’ to it, or what’d be the point.”

“’Course I didn’t,” John said. “It’s only a fuckin’ Strat.”

Paul laughed, his chest swelling when John grinned at him broadly. Their bodies were warm where they were pressed together, the dip of John’s hip just slightly lower than Paul, so he had to look up at Paul when they spoke. The height difference was practically non-existent, but it sent a confused shudder through Paul’s veins as they watched each other. John licked his lips quickly. Holding his cigarette up by his mouth, Paul held their gaze as he took a long drag. The smoke filtered between them, burning their eyes, but John remained intent and close, and suddenly Paul was very aware that his right hand was brushing John’s muscled thigh.

The conversation between the others had started up again, Gus telling some story about the vendetta between John and this Hutch bloke, Maureen giggling into George’s shoulder. The booze had gripped the crowd: dancing was more exuberant, sweatier, people grinding to the dirty howls of Little Richard. Paul’s skin ran hot, though he wasn’t sure whether it was due to the heady air of the club or just _John._

“Did you?”

John blinked, as if rousing himself from a daze. “Did I what?”

“Keep the Strat.” Paul’s pint was nearly finished. He swallowed the rest of it then turned around to put the glass on the counter. In doing so he pressed his other side to John; who, he noticed with interest, didn’t move away.

“Would _you_?” Draining his own glass, John gestured to the barman. When the bloke came over, he glanced at Paul and said, “Want another?”

“’Course,” Paul replied, “thanks, Johnny.” The name slipped out before he realized, but John only shot him an intrigued grin before ordering them another pint. As the barman shoved two sweating glasses their way, Paul became aware of a pressure on his left thigh. He glanced down surreptitiously: the back of John’s hand rested against his jeans. It was innocuous enough to blame on the busy crowd, which shoved past them periodically, driven by the current of the music, but when Paul’s eyes flicked back up to John, he was watching him intensely. The look was half questioning, half assessing, and Paul thought, _Oh, God._

“How long have ye been into music?” he blurted. Mechanically he picked up his new drink and took a fortifying sip.

Instead of turning it into a flippant joke, John reached for his own pint and said, “Since I can remember. It’s all I care about.”

There was something serious and still in the way he spoke, as if the sheer magnitude of what music meant was too inescapable, too enormous, to define by plain enthusiasm. It was another thread of similarity to add to the bow that stretched taut between them. Paul felt it tug as he leaned both elbows on the counter, effectively closing them off from the others.

“I know what you mean,” Paul said quietly, startled by his admission.

“Yeah,” John said, “I reckon ye do. It’s the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense in this shitty life. Mine especially.” He smiled playfully. “And besides, I’m pretty fuckin’ good.”

“That’s a bonus,” Paul replied seriously. John spread his hands in a _what can ye do?_ gesture and Paul laughed.

“Whaddabout you? Ye play? And I mean properly,” John added, pre-empting Paul’s stock response. “In a band, like.”

“Used to. Me and George played together when we were kids. But…” Shifting his shoulders, Paul stared into his drink for a moment. “That’s over now.” He took a gulp of his pint.

“Ye just shut it off?” John echoed disbelievingly. When Paul shrugged again, he whistled. “Christ. If I did that I’d be locked up in the fuckin’ nuthouse.”

“Oh, but –” Paul looked around him in mock confusion. “I thought they let ye out for fun days?”

When John laughed his nose wrinkled, creasing the scattered freckles across the bridge of his cheekbones. “I’ve been behaving meself,” he told Paul in confidence. One corner of his mouth was hitched into a wicked grin, and his eyes glittered when he added, “I promised I’d stay away from fit lads.”

“Yeah?” His heart beat loudly in his throat. “How’s that workin’ for ye?”

John leaned close. “Very fuckin’ badly.”

Swallowing, Paul bit his lip. Something tremored between them; he found himself leaning a little closer, as if to chase the implication with his hands, his tongue. He blinked slowly and said, “I’m – m’not…”

“Fuck off!” John snapped, suddenly furious. “Nor am I. Christ.”

“But I’m not –” His skin prickled nervously. “ _Not_ not.”

They stared at each other. John’s throat bobbed once, his brows furrowing.

“No, yeah. Not – but also –”

“Yeah?” Paul took a long pull of his pint. When he surfaced, that steady dark look had returned to John’s expression. Their gaze met and Paul smiled, hoping it’d come across as vaguely flirtatious and not fucking terrified, which was what he was. He licked his bottom lip nervously; his stomach swooped when John’s eyes dropped to watch, a flicker of something intense hidden behind that cool mask.

Tentatively, John’s hand pressed against Paul’s thigh. Paul’s heart pounded as he moved his leg to return the pressure.

“Right!” John jerked away from the counter to raise his pint glass high. Behind them, Paul heard George and the others come to attention. In a dignified tone of voice, John announced, “Let’s get fuckin’ drunk.”

“Here, here!” Together they drank. Paul didn’t think he’d downed a whole pint with as much enthusiasm in his entire life. As the haze of beer started to creep over his mind, he caught John’s eye and they grinned sheepishly at each other. Paul started laughing and John soon joined in, and then they were clutching the bar to remain upright.

“It’s only one pint,” Gus wondered, incredulous.

Catching his breath, John straightened up. He had an arm around Paul’s shoulders. Zips of excitement shot through Paul’s system, mingling with the beer and John’s warm weight and the way they shared a quick, laden look.

“Another, Johnny?” he asked innocently.

John winked at him.

* * *

An indeterminate amount of time later found John and Paul leaning against the black-bricked wall of the Sink Club. The music pounded out into the street from inside the club, their cigarette smoke simmering in the warm late evening. Paul’s forearms glowed with a thin layer of sweat, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his drainies feeling damp and tight on his lean legs. He’d lost his jacket somewhere along the line, as had John, and together they were suffused in a warm, beery frame of mind. John was telling him a convoluted story about a bird he knew, and how she’d once tossed his clothes out a window and yelled him halfway down the street.

“Then I said, ‘Well, throw me the car keys, then, love, so I can make me getaway’,” John continued, his brogue low and rough with beer, grinning as he gesticulated with his cigarette hand. “And she had the fuckin’ bollocks to say, ‘You’re blind as a pig, ye fool, where’d ye think you’ll go, off the road into the Channel?’”

The alcohol wound dangerously in his veins. Paul put a hand to the side of his face and laughed. John watched him fuzzily, his cheeks bright and flushed in the dark, grinning wide enough to make Paul’s veins pound with prolonged excitement. It’d been like this for a handful of hours: leaning into each other, murmuring into ears, John’s hand pressing against Paul’s thigh. The crowd had pushed close enough to confuse the mounting tension between them, the drawn-out promise of _something_ that had Paul imagining convoluted things in darkened rooms, enough that he’d had to go to the loo and splash cold water on his face earlier.

“Who’s this bird, then?” Paul managed once he’d caught his breath. He looked at John and put his hand back in his pocket. His pulse beat a little faster. “Ye girlfriend?”

“Christ no.” Exhaling a clumsy cloud of smoke, John closed his eyes. “The ball and chain. The stones around me neck.”

Like a punch in the gut, Paul said, “You’re married?”

“Aye. Coupla years now.” Opening his eyes, John found Paul’s gaze in the gloom. He shifted his weight in a manner that could have been discomfort, before he said, “It don’t mean anythin’. We’re separated. S’why I’m at Mimi’s, you know how it is. Her screeching and sulking and so much bloody _crying –_ ”

“I didn’t know ye were married,” Paul repeated.

“It doesn’t _mean_ anything,” John pressed. He took a sharp suck of his cig and jerked a hand into the air, as if he were waving away the whole notion of matrimony. Paul’s eyes zeroed in on his ring hand, but of course there was nothing there. “We drive each other barmy. Cyn lives with ‘er parents in _Hoylake.”_

The derision in his voice made Paul blink at him. “Does she,” he said in a measured tone of voice.

“’Miss Prim’,” John mused. His voice dropped nastily to amend: “Miss _Middle_ Class.”

Paul sensed that despite the haze of beer, John would likely not appreciate it being pointed out that were it not for his occupation, he too would be middle class. Putting his cigarette in his mouth, Paul smoked for a while, listening to the music that drifted up through the open door of the club. It was something fast, [too cheery to be pure rock n’ roll,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvyOqKhKWQ4&list=PLvl6Y6PL-LARcT2fySJatEnqVvhD5pp8Q) with an upbeat female voice that reminded Paul of that little redhead who’d done the clubs a while ago. Priscilla someone.

Startling him, John shoved off from the wall. He started to pace in tight, angry strides, sucking on his cigarette as if it’d done him personal harm.

“Mind yer storm cloud,” Paul pointed out woozily.

“Fuck off,” John snapped. Jerking to a halt, he stared at Paul. “It _doesn’t_ fuckin’ mean anything. I’m me own fuckin’ man.”

Paul smoked casually. “’Course ye are.”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want.” His voice was mounting in vehemence, as if Paul had somehow questioned the legitimacy of his marriage with Miss Hoylake. “I can _fuck_ whoever the fuck I want.”

“Alright,” Paul said. He reached out a hand in John’s direction, like he was going to placate him, but John stepped sharply away. “Hey, Johnny. S’alright. Come on, we’re fuckin’ bladdered. I believe ye. S’alright.”

John kept shaking his head. His cigarette smouldered, forgotten, between long fingers. “Yeah,” he said, half to himself. “S’fine.”

“It is,” Paul encouraged. When John reluctantly came to lean back against the wall, Paul chanced touching his thigh. Whether it was the beer or the grip of uncertainty around them, instead of pressing back like he’d done all evening, John started, shy as a colt, and looked away to resume smoking.

“You’re not?” John asked after a long while.

It took Paul a moment to realize which conversation John was in. “Not really,” he lied smoothly.

“No,” John mumbled. “No, me neither.”

As the music swung into _[Hard Headed Woman,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cN6DXflD7fU) _ they stared up at the sky and smoked. The beer pounded in Paul’s head, doubling everything around him, enough that he felt the nauseous swell in his gut, his throat. He took a steadying drag from his cig and closed his eyes. The wall behind him thrummed with the force of the bass. From far away he heard other people in the street, yelling and laughing, and below that, like a rumble of thunder, was the ocean. John was close beside him. With his eyes closed, Paul thought he imagined a fleeting touch on his forearm. When he emerged from his haze, John had pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, kudos, find me on tumblr, whatever you like! comments are nice and encouraging :~) let me know what you thought! also, know that 5/7 chapters are written, so the next update will be.............. soon... when u least expect it..


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday morning found Paul engaged in one of his most cherished activities: sleeping in.

When he finally emerged from the sticky cocoon of sweat-damp sheets, his room stuffy and hot from the combination of blinding sun and closed windows, his hangover punched him like a bus. Even groaning took too much energy, so Paul lay there, too miserable to move, until the distant sounds of Mike and his father drifted up to meet him.

As he listened to them pottering about the kitchen, the wireless burbling sports scores, Paul pieced together fragments of the night before.

John featured in all of them. Everything Paul recalled included a hand at the small of his back, a private joke whispered into his ear, a shared grin across a table. Paul dimly recalled going somewhere after the Sink, maybe to another club, where they’d all holed up in a corner booth and drank until closing. Maureen and George skiving off to the loos. A confused argument between John and Gus about chord progressions. Paul remembered having an intense conversation with John about music. John kept nodding and saying, _Ye get it, ye get it,_ and Paul thought he said something like, _I wanted t’see ye play,_ and John might have leaned close and said, _Think I’ll forget those private sessions?_

 _Christ,_ Paul thought in sudden panic. They’d played a game. _Little Richard,_ Paul guessed, and John had to take a shot of cheap gin if he was right. _Cochran. Holly. Lewis. Berry._ Then more obscure names, the ones that Paul loved but no one else had ever heard of. _Haley. Vincent. Carter. Diddley. Hare. Brenston._ And with each name John had nodded more fervently, grinned a little wider. There was something intense in his expression when he looked at Paul; a look that Paul knew was mirrored on his own face. It was the feeling of knowing someone you’d never met before. Someone you’d never have met otherwise.

Paul must be a fool. ‘I’m not not’? What sort of doublespeak was that? He buried his face in his pillow. Better to have said, _I’m half a queer, John, and I’d not mind if we end up shagging._ Part of him wondered what would have happened. In the back of his mind, he wondered if John would have gone with him anyway. Maybe he was half queer too.

This train of thought would usually lead to Paul shoving a hand down the front of his pants, but even as he entertained the idea (John’s dark eyes, that red mouth), Mike bawled up the stairs, “Get out of bed, you lug!”

If he was going to wank, it’d be better to do it when he wasn’t so bloody hungover. Paul hauled himself up and went to have a bath. When he returned some time later, Mike had nicked off to meet his friends, and Jim was reading the paper at the kitchen table. After a tepid conversation (“Had a rough night, did you?” Jim asked with a single, paternal eyebrow raised) and a half-hearted cup of tea, Paul returned to his room to, “Do some college work, Dad,” although he ended up smoking for a bit and then dozing until noon.

Towards the late afternoon, after Paul had roused himself to blink at a paper he had to finish for class, he found himself sitting on his bed and staring at the cupboard door. Far at the back, in a cardboard box that had once held a plate set, were the remainders of his musical aspirations. In scrappy notebooks and bits of paper he’d scrawled reams of lyrics, his handwriting freer than it was at school, melodies flowing through him to pool on the page. Sometimes it had been all he could do just to keep up, hunched over his guitar, pencil tripping over the book on the floor in front of him. Paul remembered countless afternoons spent here, in this room. Thinking he’d be great. That he could be someone.

He found himself biting at his bottom lip and made himself stop. _You’re being stupid,_ he told himself. Paul disliked sitting on the fence, although he knew it was in his character to look (multiple times) before he leaped. One might call it a fear of the unknown; Paul privately thought he was simply terrified of failing.

Paul lit another cigarette and mulled. His guitar was down in the sitting room, mainly because it was too nice to be shoved away somewhere, no matter how irate Paul felt with himself. His guitar was only an old Antoria, with some scuffs where he’d accidentally banged the head against George’s guitar, but it was _his._ Paul’s fingers twitched on his cigarette as he formed imaginary chords. E, A, E – something, something – B7, A? He rubbed his thumb on his lower lip as he thought, _I think of you,_ _da da dum, when I’m alone…_

The phone started ringing.

The sound was shrill in the quiet house; Jim had evidently left. Paul got up more quickly than he wanted to admit, half irritated that he’d let himself slip into old habits. Going out into the hallway, he reached the telephone on the wall and picked it up, leaning against the wall as he did so.

“Hello, number twenty, Forthlin.”

There was a teasing pause. Then John said, “I’d like a pound of ham for Tuesday, please, sir.”

Paul grinned, anticipation tightening his throat. “We’re out of ham, I’m afraid,” he replied politely, “there’s only fish left.”

“What, no porkers?” John cried. “Some bloody establishment you are.” On the other end of the line, Paul thought he heard someone yell: “Language, John!”

“Stop fuckin’ eavesdropping, Mimi! So, Paulie,” John’s voice returned to normal. Paul fancied he could hear that half-hitched smile in his tone. “What do ye say for going out fer a bite.”

“Uh, yeah! Alright.” Paul closed his eyes in agony. Trust him to sound like a bird being asked out for the first time. “I mean, sure. When d’ye wanna go?”

“Now,” John said. “Or later,” he added awkwardly.

“Now’s fine,” Paul replied, heart hammering. “Where abouts?”

“Dunno,” John said, before evidently realizing how unhelpful that was. “I know a place. S’got good coffee and that. Music, sometimes. The waitresses like me. Not much dancing, if ye want that, but we could go somewhere –”

“Sounds fab,” Paul blurted. _Christ,_ he thought, _‘fab’?_ “I’ll meet ye in town if ye like. I’m up from Penny Lane, it’ll take me like ten minutes to walk.”

John laughed suddenly. “I’m in Woolton. May as well pick ye up on me way past. I’ve got a car.” The last part was tacked on cautiously, as if he recalled his numerous anecdotes about driving near-blind.

“I don’t plan on dying tonight, John,” Paul replied flatly. “We’ll walk. Come by here in fifteen, alright? I’m on Forthlin.”

“ _Bossy,”_ John said breezily. Paul’s pulse skipped as he realized, quite suddenly, that John didn’t sound like he minded at all. “Alright, alright. See ye soon.”

It was only when he put the phone down that he remembered his hangover. Paul ferreted about for some aspirin, then spent the next fifteen minutes fussing over what he was going to wear. Even Dot used to think his meticulous dressing was somewhat suspect. She would sit at his desk chair, watching with a raised eyebrow as he tried on one shirt, then another. Eventually she’d say, exasperated, _Isn’t that the same as the last one, love?_ And then they’d have a bit of a row, and she’d set her jaw, and Paul would make a justified comment about her own appearance – _Well, I don’t see that skirt I bought ye in town last week –_ and thus their evening would be spent in a tense silence, broken only when they’d relent enough to apologize to each other. It took Paul a long time to realize that Dot had meant her apology as much as he had – which was to say, not very much at all.

Eventually he pulled on a loose, short-sleeved white button-up, his drainies, and, impulsively, his leather jacket from Mike’s room (his usual jacket had mysteriously disappeared). God knew why Mike hadn’t claimed it for this evening, but as Paul pulled it on he realized it smelled very much like Mike had been down the Sink Club and then some. Grimacing, Paul went into the bathroom to wash his face and comb his hair. As he washed his hands, he glimpsed a bottle of cologne that Dot had bought him. Paul bit his lip, dried his hands, then before he could think too much about it, splashed a bit on his neck.

He sensed that John wouldn’t be one to linger on doorsteps and ring bells politely, so Paul went to sit in the front room. Almost immediately he noticed a long-legged figure striding up the street. John was smoking and peering near-sightedly at each house he passed. Paul went outside to wave him down. As he locked the front door behind him, John leaned against the gate and called, “I found ye!”

“Through much trial and error,” Paul retorted. He grinned as he neared John, who was puffing on his cigarette despite his hands being in his pockets. John winked. His eyes slid over Paul, taking in the tight jeans, his boots.

“Christ,” John huffed, running a hand through his smooth hair.

Paul frowned. “What?”

“You’ve shined yer shoes.” John peered at Paul with a mixed expression of derision and what Paul thought could be fondness.

“Big shocker,” Paul said dryly. Rolling his eyes, he pushed past John and started walking along the street. Over his shoulder he said, “Enjoying the view, Lennon?”

“Aye, you’d like that,” came John’s indistinct reply. After a moment John caught up to him and they walked along together, the spring evening heady and close, the sun lingering just on the horizon. John smelled of cigarette smoke and something like Paul’s guitar wax. Their arms brushed as they neared the end of Forthlin, which dipped to run down towards Penny Lane.

“How’d ye get me number?” Paul asked.

Immediately putting on a BBC presenter voice, John said, “You see, there’s this rather new invention called a _telephone book…_ ”

Paul laughed. “M’surprised ye didn’t turn up in your famous car.” He bit his lip when John tilted his sleepy eyes up to meet his own, John’s mouth curling into a soft grin.

“I’d come barrelling through yer gardenias,” John replied.

Paul searched his pockets for a cig. “Better you mind the aspidistras.”

“They yours, then?” John nudged Paul’s elbow and handed him a cigarette from his own crumpled pack. They paused in the street for John to light Paul’s cig with his lighter, their gaze catching briefly as he did so. “The flowers.”

“My mother’s.” Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Paul resumed walking.

“Oh, aye. What’s Mrs McCartney when she’s at home?”

“Well, it’s not often,” Paul said lightly. “On account of her being dead, and all.”

The words lingered between them for a moment. “Ah, fuck,” John muttered.

“You don’t have to say it.” He was struck with the fear that this admission would suddenly sour the whole thing, as if John would look at Paul the way classmates and teachers had once done: eyebrows drawn together, grimacing in sympathy, opening their mouths to say the words that, really, meant fuck all. “Really. It was a long time ago.” Paul considered adding a flourish, _I barely remember her at all,_ but an image of Mary knitting in the sitting room, her head bowed as she counted stitches, was sharp enough to make Paul’s chest clench. He hid his expression by taking a drag on his cigarette.

They walked past a couple more council houses before John reached up to take the cigarette from his mouth. He flicked the ash off as they moved, the fringe beneath his flat cap brushing against startlingly long eyelashes.

“They think they’re bein’ kind,” John said quietly. “Sayin’ ‘sorry’ and all that shite, when they’d not know her if they passed in the street.”

Paul watched his boots on the pavement. “You too?”

“Aye.” John’s arm pressed momentarily against Paul’s, his voice stilted in a way that Paul recognized. It was that closed-throat feeling born from a childhood of holding back tears, tightening your lips, standing up straight, setting a good example. Paul half expected there to be a current of discomfort between them, that anxious ripple that pre-empted conversations such as these, with blokes like them, but there was only a melancholy quiet. Paul realized that they were walking very close to one another.

“So,” Paul said suddenly. He looked over at John and raised his eyebrows, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “You actually own a car, then?”

John laughed roughly, the sound low and burred with smoke. Paul smiled, nervous, as John shook his head and took another drag from his cig. “You’re a piece of fuckin’ work,” John muttered. “Yeah, I do. Wedding present from Cyn’s old man. Suppose t’make me grateful or summat, I dunno.”

“Cor, not bad,” Paul said, half-admiringly. Judging by the way John smirked at him sideways, he’d picked up on the current of envy in his tone.

“For them,” John pointed out. “I couldn’t give an arse. Can’t see to save me bloody life, and I’m shite at driving anyroad.” He peered at the end of his cigarette and flicked the ash off. “No pun intended.”

“Me Da reckons driving is the next best thing to being married,” Paul found himself saying. He imitated Jim’s no-nonsense voice: “’Get a wife, a car, and a house.’”

“’Then you’re set’,” John continued bitterly.

“Same for you, then?”

“Me aunt,” John explained, hands in pockets, striding along. “She’s got some half-baked idea I’ll give up this dock nonsense and become a fuckin’ vet.”

Paul hummed. “Yeah, and I’m a doctor.”

“McCartney, M.D.?” John’s smirk was just this side of mocking. But Paul glimpsed the warm glint in his gaze and rolled his own eyes in response, saying, “Laugh it up, Lennon. You and me are cut from the same cloth, and don’t deny it.”

“If ye say so, son.” John had injected that much mock dubiousness into his voice that Paul snorted, shoving his arm as they walked. Growling in indignation, John immediately swayed sideways, making to push Paul into the early evening traffic. Paul, torn between saving his cigarette and his own skin, yelped and grabbed hold of John’s sleeve. Overbalanced, John seized Paul’s upper arm and hauled him onto the pavement.

“Got a death wish, Paulie?” John’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his auburn fringe, their eyes trained to one another.

Paul took a solemn drag of his cig and blew the smoke right in John’s sanctimonious face. “Not now I’ve been saved,” he simpered. John groaned in protest, though the corner of his mouth was hitched into a smile.

As they continued walking, the conversation trailed onto other things. Paul was in the middle of bemoaning his slight hangover, the two of them remembering events from last night and laughing, when John suddenly looked at him and said, “What about this private session, then?”

Paul’s pulse skipped. “What?”

“Reckoned I’d forget a promise like that, did ye?” They jogged across Penny Lane intersection and, following John’s lead, started up a side street. Paul felt John watching him in his peripheral vision.

“You’re persistent, is all I’ll say,” he managed, finishing off his cigarette.

“M’not known for me patience,” John admitted. “All the same, though. I want t’hear ye play, Paul. George said you’re fuckin’ good.”

 _George_ had spoken about his music? Paul peered at a café on the corner and said, “That the place, then?”

“You’re a subtle one,” John said shrewdly, but he lead the way into the shop regardless, holding the door open for Paul and all. The café was small and not unlike the Jacaranda, which Paul had passed by but never been in, on account of the modish, sullen art students that populated it. This café was more conventional than he expected of someone like John. Along the window that looked out onto the street was a long, wide bench, upon which some late-afternoon customers lingered over little coffee glasses. The various tables were wood, not silver chrome, and the smell of chips and tea hummed in the warm air. The view from the window was one of an intersection; if Paul peered out far enough, he could see the fringe of the docks.

Taking off his jacket as he followed John through the maze of tables, Paul found himself lingering on the sight of John’s arse. He’d opted for another pair of drainies – hopefully not the ones from last night, as Paul had a dim recollection of a scotch and coke being tipped all down the side of them – which hugged his hips and shapely thighs. The knowledge that Paul had touched those thighs for a breathless instant made him feel warm under the collar.

Paul sat down with his back to the window. Through the cool glass he felt the rumble of buses and trams. Sitting opposite, John immediately shrugged off his own jacket and picked up a menu, which he squinted at myopically. His t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal muscular biceps. John scratched his head, auburn hair fluffing between his fingers, and turned the menu over, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“M’fuckin’ starvin’,” he mumbled, half to himself.

“D’ye wear glasses?” Paul asked. John peered at him, a trace of irritation crossing his face.

“Under sufferance,” he replied. “I look like a twat. Some bloke I’d make, down at the docks with me gogs strapped to me face.”

Grinning, Paul raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

John put his menu down and gave him a flat look. “No.”

“Come on.”

“Fuck off, Paul.”

“Give us a look.”

John’s mouth was twitching into a smile even as he said, “You’ll run away screaming, mark me words.”

Paul pretended to think about this for a moment. “A chance I’ll have to take.”

Snorting, John looked back at his menu. He managed to stay still for a full minute, Paul waiting patiently, before he smacked a hand on the table and growled, “You’re a bloody menace.”

“’Ave I got a gun to your head?” Paul threw back. “Put them on, Lennon.”

“Last names, eh, McCharmley? Alright, ‘ang on, ‘ang on.” Twisting around in his seat, John started searching through the pockets of his jacket. The angle made his t-shirt stretch distractingly across his ribcage. When John turned back around, Paul put on a look of coy interest.

Glancing around them, John surreptitiously slipped his glasses on and looked up.

“I like them,” Paul managed after a pause.

“I told ye,” John retorted, making to pull them off. Before he could think too much about it, Paul touched John’s forearm across the table. They stared at each other for a beat before John grumbled something and Paul pulled away, flushing.

“I said I liked them,” Paul explained, feeling awkward but managing to sound cool. Shifting in his seat, John glanced over his shoulders again but kept his glasses on. “Alright, alright.” They picked their menus back up and pretended to study them. Every so often Paul felt John’s eyes flick up at him; and when he thought John wasn’t looking, Paul glanced across. His heart leapt when their gaze snagged, but John only smirked broadly and Paul coughed to hide his embarrassed smile.

Paul put his menu down and wrinkled his nose as if in considerable thought. “Egg and chips?” he suggested.

John barked out a short laugh. He ran another hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he replied, sounding relieved. “Perfect.”

Once the waitress had come over and taken their order, the atmosphere between them loosened subtly, both of them relaxing. Paul gave John five minutes grace, during which John had idly needled Paul about his insistence on a cup of tea (“What, no coffee? What’s wrong with ye?”), before he kicked John’s shin beneath the table to make him shut up. “So,” he started casually, “what’s George said about me?”

“Christ Almighty,” John marvelled, “got any room in that head for anyone outside yourself?”

“Only if they’re fit. What’s he said, then?”

John rolled his eyes. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he lit them both one then leaned forward, crossing one arm on the table in front of him. When he smoked he did so somewhat impatiently, as if he were waiting for someone to come around the corner and berate him for wasting time. The afternoon light coming in through the window illuminated the clear planes of John’s face, the curve of his aquiline nose, his half-closed eyes, which made Paul think confusedly of rumpled sheets and hushed breaths. Although John’s expression didn’t shift from his usual one of cool assessment, Paul became belatedly aware that he had been quiet this whole time, having allowed Paul to gaze at him like a lovesick teenager. Paul reached for his cup of tea and scalded his tongue on a sip.

John laughed at Paul’s subsequent grimace. He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and said, “Only that you’d written and player together since you’d been lads. That you’d been bloody good until ye had a bout of crisis and chucked it all down the drain.” John took a drag on his cig. “Which sounds fuckin’ stupid, if ye ask me.”

“Why’s that?” Paul asked sharply.

Exhaling, John shrugged. “Why give up somethin’ ye love? Doesn’t make any sense. I mean, are ye happy working at that fag’s record shop?”

Confused, he said, “You know Brian?”

“Who? Mate, he owns a fuckin’ town car.”

“That doesn’t make him bent, John.”

“Your word against mine.” Waving his cigarette hand, John said impatiently, “Never mind all that. Answer me question. Are ye happy there?”

John’s words crept beneath Paul’s skin. “Music doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Nah, but it pays the soul.” In that moment John sounded so world-weary and aged that Paul scoffed, leaning back in his seat. He smoked for a moment before leaning his elbows back on the table, his voice hard, “The luxury of doing whatever I please is something I can’t afford. S’just the way it is.”

“Who tells ye that, ye dad?” John’s gaze glittered as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. He was suffused in silver, those honeyed eyes boring into Paul, as if he could pre-empt every miserable excuse that shrivelled on Paul’s tongue. The scrutiny prickled his skin, made him feel tetchy and irritated.

“What’s it to you?” Paul bit out.

“So you’d rather be sensible than happy.”

He frowned. “Did I say that?”

John pushed forward suddenly, his expression intense. “Fuck your father,” he growled. “He’s an old man, isn’t he? He can’t push ye around, tell ye what t’do. What, ye reckon your life starts when he’s cold in the ground?” Snorting, he took a derisive suck of his cigarette. “Think again, son.”

“Oh, and you’re so bloody worldy, are you,” Paul said tartly, raising his eyebrows. “It’s a lot more complicated than you’re makin’ it out to be, thanks.”

“I don’t like complicated,” John replied icily. “It’s a waste of fuckin’ time.”

Paul took a sip of tea. “You should put that on a badge.”

A mingled look of angry amusement and frustration flashed across John’s face. As he opened his mouth to retort, the waitress came over bearing their plates of chips. With a cheery, “Here ye are, lads,” they lapsed into a tense silence. Paul put his tea down and focused on shovelling in his chips. _This was a mistake,_ he thought darkly, _coming here, thinking it was –_ He couldn’t even finish the sentence without wanting to dissolve into the floor under the weight of his own foolishness. Anger whipped in his veins; because, in the far, far reaches of his mind, he knew that John was right.

“And another thing,” Paul started heatedly – then John groaned, long and loud enough to draw stares from neighbouring tables.

Flushing in embarrassment, Paul pursed his lips and put his cutlery down. John stopped, his mouth hidden by his cigarette hand, hair brushing into his eyes as he watched Paul with a playful, sharp expression. Paul stared at him for a long moment. Moving his cigarette away, John shot him a loaded grin.

“That doesn’t mean you’re right,” Paul pointed out fussily, and John shook his head and said, “No, sir, it doesn’t, sir.”

“Very funny.” He didn’t smile, although something in his face made John’s gaze visibly soften. Chewing on a chip, Paul rubbed the side of his nose, as he did when he was stalling for time. When John stubbed out his cigarette and started to eat, Paul swallowed and bit his bottom lip.

“If you’re such a musical soul,” he started, “why work on the docks? I can’t figure it out.”

“Been thinkin’ about me, ‘ave ye?” They shared a look, John grinning knowingly and Paul making a face, before he said, “It was better than the abattoir.” At Paul’s alarmed expression, John laughed. “Steady on, m’only joking.”

“So ye went straight from going to veterinary college to moving crates around?” The image was too disparate; Paul suspected that this, like many things about John, was not quite at it seemed.

If he noticed the attempt to change conversation, he made no visible indication. Instead, John pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and shrugged. With them on he looked even less like someone who milled about the yards all day, waiting to be picked by foremen to unload whatever ship had just pulled in. Paul imagined John standing in the sun, a cigarette in his mouth, squinting without his glasses, hands in the pockets of his grubby overalls.

After a beat, John said, “I went to art school.”

Paul stared. He blinked a couple of times, then picked up his cup of tea. “I’d not have guessed that,” he admitted.

John looked oddly pleased by this. “Yeah, well, it was a stupid idea. I was shit at school and Mimi went spare thinkin’ I was gonna end up livin’ off the street, or whatever happens when ye fail your exams.” He sounded so sarcastic that Paul snorted, and he smirked. “So,” John continued, warming up to his audience, “one thing lead to another, and somehow I end up at the Institute. Dunno why they even bothered. I certainly didn’t. Waste of everyone’s space. S’where I met Cyn, which should ‘ave been warnin’ bells on its own. But me and me mate Stu started a band. We were alright. Not fab, but okay. Had a coupla gigs. Then he went and fuckin’ left me for some fuckin’ art shit and now I’m here.”

“He left and your first thought was, ‘Let’s go to the docks’?” Paul asked, raising an eyebrow.

The corner of John’s mouth hitched into a grin. “Bit more complicated than that,” he echoed. “I always wanted to go t’sea, you know. See the world, and all that. My mate Shotton was going to come with and we’d have these wild adventures, like outta some comic or some shite.” John had a fistful of chips and was eating them as he talked. It should have been repellent, but Paul found it strangely honest. “Anyroad, I flunked outta school after Stu went to London, so I thought, ‘A steward, that’ll be next,’ and I went down to the docks, but I didn’t know ye had t’do a fuckin’ exam. ‘What bollocks,’ I said,” he punctuated this by stabbing a chip in Paul’s direction, “’A fuckin’ exam to learn how t’set tables? No fuckin’ thanks.’ So, a mate put me onto the union and that was that.”

“How long have ye been a dockworker, then?”

John chewed thoughtfully on a chip. “Must be ‘round a coupla years. Christ, how depressing.” He suddenly dropped his half-eaten chip and took a long slug of coffee.

“I saw your badge the other day.” Paul put his elbows on the table and held his tea cup to his mouth, warming his hands. “Ye part of an organization, or something?”

“The NDLB. A bunch of fuckin’ hacks, but no one else has the bollocks to stand up fer what’s right.”

“Better pay?” Paul guessed.

“Dignity,” John corrected heatedly. “Respect. I work me arse off all day and they sit around countin’ silver. No man should have power over another. That’s a fact. It’s in the bloody Bible.”

“Might be.” Paul thought about his stint in the Church choir when he’d been younger. He put down his cup and went to light another cigarette. Handing one to John without being prompted, he tilted his wrist to take a drag, watching John curiously. “I think Liverpool’s had a history of strikes and that. Did you do that demonstration the other day?”

“If ye could call it that,” John muttered. “Useless, the lot of ‘em. Couldn’t rally to save their own arses. Better than nothing, I suppose.”

“I think it’s great.” At John’s surprised look, Paul made a _why not?_ face and shrugged. “I mean, everyone’s just trying to get by, right? Ye should be able to go t’work without worrying whether or not you’ll have a job tomorrow.”

John looked at him intently. “At the bottom of it, yeah,” he surmised. “Ye don’t strike me as someone who cares much about this stuff.”

“Why?” Paul asked curtly. “Because I shine me shoes?”

Bursting into laughter, John ducked his head and shook it. He tapped some ash off his cigarette.  “Ye look too _nice_ ,” he explained. “Shined shoes and all.”

“I’m not perfect.” Paul took a drag from his cig and exhaled it over his shoulder, frowning slightly.

John scoffed. “Come off it. You’ve got a nice job, live in a nice house, and ‘ave a nice family. If that ain’t perfect, I’m me maiden aunt.”

On the surface, Paul could dimly see where John had gotten all that from. But trying to explain the tangled mess that was his life, the unhappy daily dredge he waded through, the way his throat swelled with songs he couldn’t sing – that was impossible, least of all in a corner café over a plate of egg and chips. Paul merely shrugged, deciding against playing into this conversation. Taking Paul’s silence of acquiescence, John smirked and resumed smoking.

“Why’d ye quit that band?” Paul asked suddenly.

John expression immediately clouded over. “Because they’re cunts who can’t hold a tune.”

“Carry your own, then.” Something slightly reckless stirred in Paul’s veins; he’d never experienced anything like John’s needling before. Paul raised his eyebrows challengingly. “If you’re such a virtuoso, go and do it.”

“Why, so I can give it all up like you have?” John flicked his cigarette. “No thanks.”

“I write,” Paul retorted. Realizing what he’d said, he amended, “Wrote.”

“Shopping lists?” John quipped.

“And then some.”

“Go on, then.” Leaning further over the table, John narrowed his eyes at him. “Explain.”

“I wrote me own songs. Recorded one, even. Me and George, back when we were kids. S’not much, but it’s more than you, I bet.”

The trace of smug exhilaration in Paul’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. John’s eyes narrowed even further as he studied him, the cigarette burning low between his knuckles. “Give over,” he said. “Did ye really?”

“Yeah, I did,” Paul replied coolly. “So fuck off about me not knowing what it’s like, having music in you all bloody day, wanting t’get out. It’s all here, inside me. Song after song. But I’m not going to go down that way because it’s just not the right thing to do.”

John watched him quietly. “If you feel like that, it must be right.”

“’Course it’s _right._ But it’s not sensible.”

“Who gives a fuck about being sensible? I sure don’t. S’bloody boring. Conformity is the enemy of creativity, remember that.”

Paul snorted and shook his head, an incredulous smile threatening the corners of his mouth. “D’ye keep that kinda shite locked away to pull out in unsuspectin’ conversation?”

“Only on unwilling participants,” John retorted, but he was grinning. “Paul, seriously, though. What d’ye write? And don’t say ye don’t _write,_ present tense. I can sense it.”

“You’re psychic now, too?” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Will the wonders never cease.”

“What can I say; it bubbles over,” John sighed, and Paul said, “Sounds like you need that looking into.”

Eyes glittering, John quipped, “Oh, aye, Doctor McCartney?”

“Bend over and cough, if you please,” Paul articulated.

“Later, maybe. If ye treat me nice.”

“And treat you kind?”

John thought about it. “No, that’s not necessary.”

They started laughing, Paul pressing the back of his cigarette hand to his mouth to hide his grin. John’s eyes on his were bright and warm, his cheeks slightly pink. His grin faded as he looked at Paul, whose stomach swooped beneath the scrutiny. Paul felt his face start to flush, so he turned his hand around to take a drag of his cigarette. He glanced up to find John still looking at him, his own forgotten cig trailing smoke up around his face.

“I write,” John said suddenly.

Paul’s heart thumped. “Really?”

“Yeah. For years. Got notebooks full of the stuff. Mostly rubbish. Poetry, mainly.”

“Any good?” Paul asked, leaning forward.

Shrugging, John at last stubbed out his cigarette. Paul watched him take a sip of his cold coffee. “Have you ever set it to music?” he asked.

“A coupla times, yeah,” John replied. “Hard t’do when you’re alone, though. I never know if what I’m coming up with is genius or pure shite. Probably both, like me.”

In that moment, John looked disarmingly shy. He’d not ducked his gaze or hidden his expression, but something had softened his edges. Unlike earlier, when he’d been buoyant and cheeky, he now sounded serious and calm. Paul had noticed how still John held himself, but he hadn’t realized the extent until he met those steady eyes. Swallowing past everything he’d built up, all the excuses and martyred explanations, Paul found himself saying, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

It was only when John raised a slow eyebrow that Paul squeezed his eyes shut. “You know what I mean,” he managed, just as John began to laugh meanly.

“Well, well,” John leered. “At last, the truth comes out. Pricktease Paulie has an agenda.”

Paul spluttered. “Come again?”

“Probably.” Smirking over his cup, John watched Paul bite his lip against the tide of images that washed through his mind. He let Paul languish for a full minute before he tilted his head coolly, and said, “Alright.”

“Arsehole,” Paul muttered. John only laughed.

* * *

Since he’d last seen John, Paul hadn’t stopped thinking about him. It was probably totally mad, going back over the conversations they’d had, the easy way with which John had met each probing question or teased aside, thinking about the way John grinned or laughed, but he couldn’t help it. John was unlike anyone he’d ever met, ever. He’d swept through like a gust of ocean wind, and for the first time in a long while Paul let himself wonder about the things he’d brought up. Stuff about his job, his music, his family.

Of course, he thought crossly, hunched over his neglected college work, it wasn’t like he was going to chuck NEMS and Forthlin in the next few days. But since the café Paul had found himself flicking to the classifieds section more often, casually scanning the TO LET column as he ate his toast in the morning. They’d phoned each other a few times since, mainly to talk about music. That was rapidly becoming the foundation for what Paul could, only now, tentatively call a friendship, because what else described how he felt when he and John were together? His phone calls to John had clearly raised some red flags with Mike, who’d started making snide comments that warranted a thump or two.

“Mimi thinks I’ve made you up,” John announced one evening as Paul waited for the pies in the oven to finish cooking. John’s voice over the telephone line crackled slightly. “According to her I’ve finally gone ‘round the bend.”

“’Round the Allerton bend, maybe,” Paul replied, amused. “Anyroad, from what you’ve said she’d rather skin me than have me hanging about.”

John snorted. “Christ, you’re not coming here. That’s no exaggeration, ye know. Thought I’d come around on Friday.” There was a pause. “If you’re not busy keeping house, that is.”

“Fuck off,” Paul scoffed. His heart beat a little faster at the prospect of John being _here._ In his tiny childhood bedroom _._ “Yeah, alright. You’re not workin’ then?”

“S’my turn to strike,” John said indistinctly; it sounded like he was eating something. “We take it in turns. Alright, I’ll come ‘round. And I’m bringing me guitar.” Before Paul could reply, John added, “Can it, McCartney. This ain’t up for discussion.” He hung up.

Intuitively feeling that John would turn up later rather than earlier, Paul had called Brian to ask if he could work at NEMS in the morning instead of the afternoon, leaving a couple of hours to cram in his night school work before John arrived. As payment for his recent sloth, Paul had to churn through a few weeks of backlogged readings and papers. He chain-smoked and tried not to look at the cupboard in the corner of his room. Although he knew, logically, that by this stage it was only a matter of time until John came barrelling through here to bear witness to Paul’s miserable song writing efforts, it felt somehow like giving in if he looked first. As if, with John by his side, his indiscretion would feel less like betraying his self-imposed musical exile.

He’d not long since put away his things when there came a tremendous banging on the front door. Thankful that Jim and Mike were out, Paul hurriedly checked his appearance in the mirror before thumping down the stairs.

Pulling open the door, Paul grinned at John. “Just woke up?”

“Christ, ye sound like Mimi.” John shouldered past into the sitting room. He had a guitar case in one hand and was dressed casually, a t-shirt and jeans, as if he’d anticipated little more than lounging about the house and playing some music.

Most people would linger before making themselves comfortable, making polite comments about the state of one’s home, but John flopped onto the settee and threw his legs over the arm. Having dropped his case to the carpet, he stretched one arm up around his head. Paul watched him peer at the photographs on the walls, the television in the corner, the ironing board that Mike had conspicuously forgotten to put away. The hem of his white shirt pulled up, exposing a sliver of taut stomach.

“Want some tea?” Paul asked quickly.

John had twisted around to stare at a framed photograph of Mary. Following his gaze, Paul felt compelled to say, “Me mum.”

“Ye look like her.” Glancing between him and the photograph, John added, “Your eyes are the same.”

To cover his surprise, Paul teased, “Spend a lot of time lookin’ at me eyes, then?”

“Hard not to,” John replied shortly. Shoving himself into a sitting position, he leaned his elbows on his knees and grinned at Paul. “So. Mc _Charmley._ Thought I was jokin’ about hearin’ ye play? Bet ye did.”

Panic curled in his stomach. “John, listen…”

“None of that, now! M’here, aren’t I? I’ve slummed it all the way to Forthlin, so the least ye can do is show us what you’ve got.” After a pause, John licked his top lip and said, “I brought me poetry.”

So he _was_ being serious. Paul looked at him closely. “Thought that was private?”

“Yeah, well.” Shrugging suddenly, John pushed to his feet. He stuck his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Where’s that cuppa?”

“Now who’s being subtle.” Laughing at John’s growl, Paul went into the kitchen, John trailing along close behind. The ticking clock over the bread bin sounded loud in the quiet, an occasional passing car amplifying the still way in which John leaned against the counter and watched Paul move about. His gaze felt curious. John lived in Woolton, didn’t he? That wasn’t too far a cry from the McCartney’s home, but it was certainly in a much nicer area. Through the far kitchen wall came the muffled sounds of the neighbour’s wireless.

Once the kettle was on the hob, Paul turned to lean against the cooker. Fidgeting, he blurted, “It’s not much, I know –”

“Don’t even try,” John interrupted. He took in the bits of paper stuck to the front of the green fridge, the row of SUGAR SALT PEPPER pots by the sink, the remains of Jim’s breakfast things drying on the rack. “S’a kitchen. What did ye think I’d think?”

“Wait staff,” Paul replied, deadpan. “Silver cutlery.”

“I work on the fuckin’ docks, mate. Don’t think I’ve got airs just because I rest me head at Mimi’s.”

John’s intuitiveness made Paul huff out a laugh. “Yeah, alright.”

“George said you’re studyin’ to be a teacher,” John said suddenly, watching as Paul took the kettle off and began to fill two cups. “Night school. Very ‘by day, a shop assistant, by night –‘”

“’A shoe shiner,’” Paul finished. He handed a cup to John, who took it without saying thanks.

“Why a teacher? I fuckin’ hated school. I can’t imagine going back there voluntarily, let alone to contribute to the bloody system.”

“Of education?” Paul guessed.

John set his jaw. “Churnin’ out nice little worker bees, that’s what school’s do these days. If you’re dim, it’s off to trade. If you’re clever, congratulations, son, never mind you’re the dullest arsehole who ever lived, have a fuckin’ promotion because Daddy knows someone who knew someone who blew someone.”

Paul took a stalling gulp of tea. “I don’t think it’s like that, John.”

“The very fact you think it’s not means it is,” John stated, as if that should be the end of the discussion.

“How cryptic,” Paul commented.

Waving a hand in dismissal, John took a sip of tea, then frowned into his cup. “What, no sugar or milk, Paulie?”

Paul rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Get it yourself, lazy sod. S’behind you.”

“Can’t be arsed. I just like bossin’ ye about. Anyroad, teaching.” With renewed interest John narrowed his eyes at him. “It’s because ye dunno what else to do, I bet.”

Lowering his cup, Paul frowned at John, bemused. “You really have me figured out, don’t you.”

“Not in the slightest,” John replied instantly. Their gaze met and Paul’s skin prickled.

“Yeah, well.” Biting his lip briefly, Paul glanced away from John, then gestured towards the living room. As John followed him out, he felt the weight of those amber eyes on the back of his neck. Paul looked over his shoulder to find John staring at his arse. His stomach swooped dangerously.

Paul put his cup on the coffee table and sat down in an armchair, John flopping back onto the settee. “I love teaching people,” Paul answered belatedly. He shrugged and watched his hands, which he twisted between his knees. “M’good at it. And I think kids like me. I understand them. If you know something, really well, I mean, I think you should show it to others. You know?”

“No, but I’m a selfish bastard.” John fidgeted with the cushion next to him, watching Paul from beneath his fringe.

“Don’t reckon that’s true,” Paul said, shrugging. “I don’t think teaching’s for everyone, mind. Sometimes I think I’d be rubbish. But it’s better than being a doctor.”

John snorted. “See if ye think that twenty years from now.”

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, smart arse. Go on, then.” Paul gestured to John’s guitar case. “Enough distractions. Show us what you’ve got.”

After rolling his eyes and noisily finishing his tea, John finally dragged his case over. He was about to flick it open when his eyes caught on something behind Paul’s armchair. Frowning, Paul watched as John darted across and hoisted his Antoria up triumphantly. “I fuckin’ knew it!” he crowed.

“John,” Paul objected, making to grab his guitar away. “Put it down. It’s old and shit. You’ll probably break it.”

“Steady on, ye of little faith.” John jerked the guitar further out of Paul’s reach and commenced studying it. In his long-fingered hands, Paul’s guitar looked even rattier and cheaper than he remembered it being. The grey light coming in from the window illuminated the various scuffs on its veneer, the scrapes collected from a childhood of dragging it between his place and George’s. He used to clean it almost every night, driven by the vague idea that a workman was only as good as his tools. Paul couldn’t even remember the last time he’d touched it.

Getting to his feet, Paul took a few steps closer to John. They inspected the guitar between them. After a beat, their gaze met. It was only at this proximity that Paul was aware of the scattered freckles on the bridge of John’s nose. He dimly remembered looking at them in the club, dark blue light pooling over the smooth planes of John’s handsome face, the way his teeth glinted when he grinned. But here, in Paul’s living room, John watched him with an expression that could only be described as soft.

Paul’s breath hitched. He frowned and said quietly, “John –”

John suddenly thrust the guitar into his hands. A challenging flicker tripped into a smirk, his eyes lowering as he tipped his head back to survey Paul. “Play me something.”

They stared at each other for another heady beat. The vestiges of Paul’s reservation dissolved when he unwound the guitar strap from John’s hand, their fingers brushing momentarily. Raising his eyebrows, Paul said, “Sit down, then.”

“Tellin’ the audience what t’do? You’ve got nerve.” But John sat back down on the settee and leaned against the cushions, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting.”

“Shut up,” Paul shot back, glancing up and grinning. He’d put the strap around his back and started to tune up, tilting his head to concentrate.

The feeling of a guitar in his hands was like coming home. Closing his eyes to find the right chords, Paul’s fingers moved automatically over the frets and strings, slipping into muscle memory as one would a warm bath. A confusing swell of emotions trembled in his veins. All of his well-crafted excuses, every determined set of his jaw, the countless times George had frowned at him when they were teenagers, _Paul, ye don’t have to drop it like this –_ they suddenly seemed thin as paper. Paul opened his eyes to focus on the frets, effortlessly finding the right key. He cleared his throat. Then he began to play.

Paul hadn’t known what he’d show John, but as the opening chords of _When I’m Sixty-Four_ curled out into the quiet living room, he instinctively knew it was the right choice. He played the opening twice over, just to get the feel of it, before he cleared his throat again and started to sing.

Outside of humming to himself as he made tea or singing when he was alone in the shop, Paul had locked his voice away as he had his notebooks. It was better to feel his vocal chords swell with compressed music, to feel them strain with the urge to sing _loudly,_ proudly, and to _know_ that he was in control of something that flowed as naturally through him as the hot blood in his veins.

He let himself dissolve into the song. The words were years old now, written over the course of a few afternoons when he was fifteen or so, thinking idly of the show tunes he loved to listen to. He could picture the scene perfectly: a husband and wife, the stage set for a kitchen, him serenading her as they danced around the table.

John’s figure burned in his peripheral vision. Paul didn’t look at him until the final note thrummed, lifting his hand from the strings and catching his breath. The pads of his fingers stung; his throat constricted with nerves. He sat back down on the armchair, laying his guitar across his lap. After a long moment, he looked up at John.

Part of waited for the quip that never came. John’s expression was shuttered, his eyes steady on Paul’s, with only a slight fringe of tension in the corner of his mouth. When he huffed out a laugh and shook his head, Paul frowned.

“It’s a good song,” he said defensively.

John started to laugh. “’The word’.”

Paul’s frown softened. “What?”

“Nothin’. Christ, Macca.” Running a hand through his hair, John straightened in his seat. He dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow. “S’fuckin’ good, mate. George was right, the little bastard.”

“Oi,” Paul protested, starting to smile.

John leaned over to resume opening his guitar case. He pulled out a large, red-panelled acoustic. “Got any more of those show tunes, son?” Moving over to the armchair beside Paul’s, he settled down and started tuning up.

“Like I’d sing them now,” Paul retorted, watching John’s fingers move deftly over the frets. He noticed that John favoured three fingers, and when he pointed it out, John frowned at his hands.

“You what? I’ve always played like this.”

“Have ye tried using more fingers?”

John sniggered and Paul found himself laughing. “Shit, alright. I did invite that one in, I’ll admit.”

When John dissolved into full laughter, Paul realized what he’d said and groaned, rubbing a hand over the side of his face.

“Really, keep goin’.” John’s grin was broad and happy. Paul’s skin warmed at the sight. “I could do this all fuckin’ day.”

“What, delay the inevitable?” Dropping into a quick Western-styled riff, Paul cocked his head to the side and laughed at John’s astonished expression. “Keep up, Johnny,” he teased. “I’m leavin’ ye in the dust.”

“Like hell y’are.” With a swiftness that surprised him, John launched into [a swinging rendition of a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVc3lfrKGkg) that Paul recognized dimly. He stopped playing to listen, watching John’s hands strum firmly. When he began to sing, playing up the American accent, made all the more nasal by John’s natural inflection, Paul snapped his fingers.

“Hank Williams,” he said. “Bloody hell, not you too.”

“I’d not be a Scouser without an appreciation’ for the Wild West,” John growled playfully. He dipped into the middle eight of _[Move it On Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Lza3NVH6Ig) _ and sang, “ _Move it on, little dog, ‘cause the new dog’s movin’ in.”_

Thinking quickly, Paul started plucking out [a swift tune.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8WdGneKY5g) His grin broadened as realization dawned on John’s face, his cheeks flushing as he barked out a laugh. “ _Who, who, who slapped John?”_ he sang roughly, hamming up Vincent’s upswing in the chorus.

Paul bit his lip and segued into another song. His acoustic was too hollow for such a rich bassline, but he compensated for mimicking the downbeat by knocking on the shell of his guitar. After a few bars he glanced up at John, but he’d already joined in, their joint sound brimming together, Paul mucking about and waggling his head as he improvised, “ _Laugh it up, John, just laugh it up.”_

“Fuckin’ sacrilege, Paul! Little Richard’s rollin’ in his grave.”

“Aye, next to Beethoven.”

[“ _He can’t help it, Paul can’t help it.”_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZQbe4PlnPg&list=PL6848182142599EF8&index=9)

Paul teased, “More than you know, Lennon.”

“Fuck off,” John said admiringly. He caught and held Paul’s eye, the music fading between them. Belatedly Paul was aware that he was a little short of breath, his voice slightly hoarse from singing after so long. Colour had risen in John’s face, his forehead damp, fluffy auburn hair curling over his thick eyebrows.

Paul’s heart thumped when John glanced down at his mouth.

Blinking slowly, John’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. His expression was collected, but Paul glimpsed a flicker that made something hot trickle over Paul’s skin; the hair on his arms stood up.

When their eyes met, John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“You’re good,” he said, the timbre of his voice low and rough. He flicked down to Paul’s mouth again. “Real good.”

“Is that so?” Paul was trying for levity, but he sounded breathless even to his ears. He added, “Better than your plucking at a banjo, that’s for sure.”

John grinned, the action as slow as the strike of a match. “M’a man of many talents, McCartney. Wouldn’t expect ye to understand what it’s like.”

“Being a genius?” Paul suggested lightly.

John made a thoughtful sound. “That or Jesus. I’ve not decided which yet.”

They had drifted closer without realizing. This close, Paul could count the pale freckles on John’s aquiline nose, the way they scattered across his cheekbones, the dull colour in his cheeks. His lips were red and wet where he’d bitten at them. Paul had the vague urge to find out what John tasted like.

He was breathing shallowly. Paul blinked, as if he could banish where his thoughts were leading, but the action only drew John’s half-shuttered eyes down to Paul’s lips. He licked them before he could think twice; John’s mouth parted.

Paul found himself saying, “Let me know when you make a decision,” and John nodded once, looking slightly dazed, as he murmured, “That all ye want me to decide?”

The implication of those words made Paul’s skin seize with heat. He opened his mouth to – what? The distance ached between them.

John slowly, deliberately, started to lean closer.

The sound of the front gate clattering made Paul start. In the next instant, the front door swung open, and Mike’s loud whistling pierced the tense silence.

Paul caught his breath and jerked away just as Mike thumped up the hallway. He swung to a halt outside the living room. Looking between them, Mike said, “Blimey. He’s _real,_ then?”

John sprang to his feet. “Larger than life, son.” He looked disorientated and vaguely guilty, as if Mike were a parent interrupting something private.

Acting on autopilot, Paul forced himself to focus on Mike’s suspicious expression. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” he snapped.

“Bunked off, didn’t I,” Mike drawled. He continued to glance between them with a look that stoked Paul’s frustration. There was nothing to indicate what might have happened if Mike hadn’t arrived, but the fact was that he _had,_ and in Paul’s flustered mind he felt now that nothing would happen.

Paul found himself on his feet. “You should be at school,” he repeated.

“Leave off, Paul,” Mike snipped. “What’s with the guitar? Thought you were a musical monk these days.”

“Celibacy’s relative,” John drawled, glancing sidelong at Paul, who flushed.

Loudly, before Mike could interpret anything further, Paul said, “Right! Go do your homework.”

“I’ve not got any,” Mike protested in confusion, as John burst into sniggers and Paul charged across the room to herd him towards the stairs. “Ow! Shit, Paul, that was my foot.”

Paul grabbed his upper arm. “Just bugger off, would you.”

“Paul’s a bit private,” John called from the doorway, sounding far too cheerful for the narrowness of their escape. “Doesn’t like an audience.”

Mike went, “An audience for what?” as Paul growled, “Ignore John; he’s a nutter.”

To accentuate the point, John pulled a village idiot impression. Mike managed to wrestle himself free from Paul’s manhandling and gave them both an incredulous look.

“You’re  _both_ nutters.”

John beamed. “Birds of a feather, and all that.”

“One of us is certainly stuffed,” Paul muttered.

Mike stared. Raising his eyebrows, he blew out his cheeks and resumed thumping up to his room. Once his bedroom door slammed closed, John burst into renewed laughter.

“Shut up,” Paul tried, though he realized he was grinning. They caught each other’s gaze and Paul bit his lip hard against the bubble of euphoria in his chest. “John!” he protested. “Shut up. This is  _not_ funny.”

John’s grin was wild and brilliant. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” Paul replied. When he looked at John, his chest swelled. Heat simmered beneath his skin. When John crossed his arms, still leaning against the doorway, Paul noticed the bulge of muscle, the dusting of fine hair. John’s eyes were heavy and half-mast. His grin melted into a flirtatious smile.

“I meant it,” John drawled.

Heart thumping, Paul said, “What?”

“About celibacy.” With a lingering look, John pushed off from the doorframe. “Everything’s relative.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you thought! comment, kudos, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

Paul hadn’t realized he’d decided until the words were out of his mouth.

Jim looked up from his steak and chips. It was Friday, which meant that Paul’s usual meat-and-three-veg were replaced with an end of week treat. His news, however, soured the moment.

Mike, who had turned up for tea in a rare show of familial camaraderie, stared at Paul from across the table. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence. Paul cleared his throat and reached for a glass of water.

“Why on Earth would ye want to move?” Jim asked, putting down his cutlery. He watched Paul from over the top of his glasses.

“You’ve not met someone,” Mike blurted, incredulous.

“Because it’s time,” Paul replied tartly, “and no, I’ve not met someone.”

When he’d let slip the other day to John that he’d wanted to move out from Forthlin, John had burst out laughing.

“Oh, thanks for the show of support,” he’d griped, crossing his arms as John half-slumped over the café table, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Sorry, sorry,” John managed, not sounding very sorry at all. “S’just – why bother? You’ve got a bloody roof over your ‘ead, you’ve got regular meals. Ye don’t even pay _board,_ for Christ’s sake.” His grinned and teased, “Is this a proposition, McCartney?”

“No!” Paul coloured; John’s shrewdness always struck at the most inopportune times. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a while, if you must know. I think it’s about time I make me own way, y’know. I can’t live at home forever.”

Finally sobering up, John shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t see why not.”

“You would think that,” Paul pointed out. “At least I’ve not been chucked out by the missus.”

“Oi! S’more complicated than that.” It wasn’t, but Paul let that one slide. “’Sides, Mimi loves me. She’d be dead inside a week if she wasn’t up worryin’ about where I was any time of day or night.”

“Lucky her,” Paul commented dryly. John winked. “I do what I can, son. Charitable, I am.”

Paul wasn’t moving out because of John; the idea was ludicrous. If he would ask anyone to share with him, it’d likely be George, if only because they’d known each other since they were both lads, and George had been making noises about him and Maureen for a few weeks. Sure, things would be tight, but they’d manage. They had to, at this age, didn’t they?

Delaying the inevitable – though it was one of Paul’s gifts – wouldn’t suit in this situation. Paul put his cutlery down and rested his hands on the table. When he met Jim’s cool gaze, something inside him threatened to shy away.

“I can’t stay here forever, Da.” Paul licked his lips nervously. He glanced at Mike. “I’m a grown man. I can afford it. I _want_ it. S’only the natural progression, isn’t it?”

“I see.” Jim dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. The ticking clock seemed to grow louder; Paul felt the onset of a headache.

Mike said, “Well, _I_ don’t. Who’s going to cook tea?”

Paul glared at him. “Selfish prat. You’re more than capable, ye know.”

“I’ve got things to do!” Mike burst, and Jim said, “Enough, both of ye.” He adjusted his glasses and studied his plate of food. After a long moment, Jim looked up at Paul.

“I can’t stop you,” he said evenly. “You’re correct. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself. I can only say I’m surprised you’d not decided to go sooner, if you’ve felt this way for so long.”

 _Because the guilt alone would kill me,_ Paul thought sourly. With as much politeness as he could muster, Paul said, “I s’pose it’s just come on. S’nothing anyone’s done; it’s just me. How I feel, and all that, y’know. I wanted to say it now, sooner rather than later, just in case –”

“It doesn’t work?” Mike suggested. Paul narrowed his eyes.

Jim made a weary motion at them. Leaning back in his chair, he began the process of pulling out his pipe and filling it with tobacco. When he patted his pockets for some matches, Mike produced a box and handed it over. Jim took it suspiciously. “You’ve not started smoking, son, I should hope.”

Mike smiled wanly.

“They’re mine,” Paul said automatically. Mike shot him a grateful look.

“So.” Puffing out a cloud of smoke, Jim waved the match out. He regarded Paul thoughtfully. “Have you found a place to let? Or are you staying with George’s family?” The Harrisons were of the same status as they were, but still Jim managed to say George’s name in the way Mary might have done, as if by virtue of their address the McCartneys were just slightly higher up the totem pole.

Ignoring the undercurrent in Jim’s words, Paul said, “Martin, the bloke I work with at NEMS? He’s leavin’ his current place. Don’t want the lease to go wanting, I s’pose, so I said I’d take it over.” The thick scent of tobacco clouded their small kitchen. “It’s up Grafton way, by the docks?”

Though Jim hid it well, Paul noticed the flicker of distaste in his expression. No one lived near the docks unless you were a labourer, an immigrant, or one of those bohemian students the newspapers were always moaning about. “I’m sure you’ll be happy there,” Jim replied carefully.

Relief shot through him. It was no glowing wave of praise, but it was certainly better than what he’d been expecting.

Paul smiled, and he instantly felt the tension loosen in his shoulders. “Thanks, Da.”

Mike stabbed a chip with his fork. “I still don’t see who’s going to do the cooking.”

“You’ll have to learn, won’t you,” Paul commented, tone light. As Mike wrinkled his nose, Jim smiled around his pipe. “Aye, about time you helped out more ‘round here, Michael.”

The conversation dissolved into good-natured bickering. Mike’s defence (“The ironing! What, that’s not good enough?”) was refuted by Jim (“Don’t make me show you that burn on my cuff last week, son”), and Paul played referee to them both. The sight of Jim, with his old-fashioned pipe and spectacles, and Mike – who refused to tilt from indignance into laughter, though the corners of his mouth quirked – made Paul’s chest swell.

 _That was so easy,_ he thought, as he made some pointed comment about the state of Mike’s room, which made him go, “Like you’re _any_ better, Jimbo!” _It was so easy._ Paul laughed and Jim protested, “There are no ‘Jimbos’ in this household, Michael," and  _he was going to be free._

It was as easy as picking up his guitar after years of refusal. As easy as finding John’s eyes in a crowd; as easy as the way they’d sung together, their voices soaring upwards, watching the way John’s fringe brushed his eyelashes and the way he grinned when he looked at Paul: slow and secretive, as if he were tasting hidden words on his tongue.

The feeling was emboldening. It was only later, when Paul flipped open a notebook and scribbled down a handful of lyrics, that he realized in all this, or maybe because of, he’d been thinking about John.

* * *

A few days later, Paul was in the middle of his coursework when the front doorbell rang. When he went down to answer it, John was on the front porch, hunched into an oversized jacket with a row of NDLB badges on the lapels, with his flat cap pulled down low against the drizzling rain. He peered at Paul through an overlong fringe and said, “Let me in before I lose me bollocks.”

“How persuasive,” Paul observed as John came stomping into the foyer. He was covered in a layer of rain, which pooled onto the wooden floor boards when he shrugged his jacket off. Shuddering in exaggeration as he pulled off his hat, John blinked rapidly against the water webbed to his eyelashes. Paul realized he wanted to push John’s hair back from his forehead; he closed the front door instead.

Leaning back against the frame and crossing his arms, he gave John an amused once over. “What brings you here, then? Bored at the docks?”

“Bugger off,” John replied grumpily. “What good’s a general strike if half the blokes can’t be bothered to remember what we’re strikin’ for in the  _first_ place. Got a cuppa on the go?”

Following John into the kitchen, Paul eyed his arse in his tight drainies. “You’re skiving off?” he asked vaguely.

“Not skiving,” John replied indistinctly, clattering about with the kettle, filling it from the tap, peering past the net curtains and out onto the miserable grey day beyond. He glanced over at Paul by the door. “Doing me duty. Got milk this time?”

“In the fridge.” Paul went to sit at the table and watched John move about the space as if he’d been here a hundred times. Although by now, he almost had. They’d fallen into a rhythm: John would swing past after work, or they’d meet in town for lunches. He’d gone up to NEMS only once before Brian had spied him and come hurrying; since then, John lurked at the street entrance, chain-smoking, waiting for Paul to appear, smirking as he recounted Brian’s spaniel eyes at John’s disappearance. The attention, which might make other men furious, only put John squarely between irritation and embarrassment.

 _Leave off,_ he’d mutter when Paul made a teasing comment.  _He’s a sad old fuck, that’s all._

How weird to think that once Paul was nervous about showing John into Forthlin. By now he seemed to fit.

The thunder rumbled as the rain splattered the windows. Anyone else would have looked like the cat had dragged them in. But John, in a manner that Paul was rapidly associating  _only_ with John, merely looked flushed from the cool outside, and dishevelled where he’d rumpled his damp auburn hair. The overhead light cast the space in a bright glow, making John’s skin appear smooth, his freckles standing out on the bridge of his proud nose. His black turtleneck clung to his broad shoulders and flat stomach; and his dark drainies slipped down endless legs. For someone who spent so much time sleeping, snacking, and avoiding work, John looked…

Tearing his eyes away from John’s narrow waist, Paul blinked up at him. “Sorry?”

John smirked. He held up the milk bottle. “This and sugar? Unless you’re too distracted, mind.”

“Can’t blame a man for that,” Paul replied, sounding more flirtatious than he intended.

John’s eyebrows quirked. “S’pose it depends on who, what, and where he’s lookin’.”

Paul pretended to lean back and regard the view. Pulling his gaze up John’s torso to meet his eyes, he was startled to note some colour had risen in John’s cheeks. “Not bad, I’d say.”

“Fuck off,” John mumbled, but he was grinning.

After John shoved a cup Paul’s way and sat in the seat opposite, they sipped their tea and listened to the drum of rain outside. It was coming down harder down, banging on the tile roof and streaming into the gutter. The flower beds would end up flooded.

“Speakin’ of bein’ a man.” John put his cup down and started tapping out a cigarette. When Paul noticed and blinked beguilingly, he added, “What, you reckon I’ve forgotten you’re incapable of owning yer own bloody smokes?”

Paul sighed happily when John handed him a lit ciggie. “Ta, John,” he murmured, and brought it to his mouth.

John shrugged, his cheeks stained red. He busied himself with sticking his own cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “Told old Jimbo your plans, then, or what?”

“About moving?” When John shrugged again, Paul exhaled a stream of smoke and nodded. “Yeah, a coupla nights ago. You can imagine how it went down. He’s disappointed, but.”

“You’re free.”

“I’m free,” Paul agreed.

Balancing one ankle on the opposite knee, John slumped further down in his chair and regarded Paul through the smoke haze. “Where’re ye goin’ then? I assume Paul McCartney doesn’t just make plans without cross-checkin’ and referencin’ them first.”

Paul smiled sarcastically at him, then said, “A bloke I work with is moving out of his place. Said I’d take it up. M’going to see it on the weekend.” There was a brief pause. “You could come with.”

Paul’s light tone did nothing against the way John’s head whipped around. The kitchen clock ticked loudly between them.

“Dunno much about that sort of shite,” John said eventually.

“No, sure.”  _Stupid,_ Paul thought, irritated at himself. He shot John a smile and leaned forward to ash his cigarette. “Don’t worry. Just an errant idea. I’ll ask George.”

“No!” Paul blinked at John’s exclamation. John set his jaw and said, “I’ll come. Bloody optimists. God knows you’d see a leaking fuckin’ roof and think it just needs a lick of paint.”

Paul laughed in surprise. “I’m not that bloody bad, thanks very much! I can look after meself.”

John tapped the side of his nose. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, son.”

The glitter in John’s expression made Paul bite his lip. “Take your own advice,” he protested. “Have you seen your hair? Ye honestly look like a homeless man.”

“And  _you_ sound like Mimi,” John replied rudely. He wrinkled his nose to focus on his fringe, which curled against his forehead and brushed his eyelashes whenever he blinked. With his sloe eyes and intense, vacant resting expression, John looked like he’d mug you behind the pub for five bob and half a crown. John carded his hair back with his free hand and scowled. “S’a bit long,” he conceded.

Paul made a  _there ye go_ noise. John looked at him. “Cut it for me.”

Paul coughed on an exhale. “You what?”

John tapped the ash from his cigarette. “Go on, then. If it bothers ye that much. Give me a haircut.”

Admitting that, until recently, his Da or Auntie Gin had cut Paul’s hair, seemed like a stupid thing to say. Paul coughed again, embarrassed. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

“Not bad enough for you to have a hack at it?” Paul tried to smile. John threw him a look and smirked into his cigarette. “Oh, ta very much.”

“I mean –” He could always give the front a trim, perhaps? Use a comb, brush it forward, snip bits off at a time? Paul tried to remember how his auntie always did it. On the stool, in the kitchen, with newspaper catching the tufts of soft, dark hair. The scheduled haircut was always regarded with obstinacy by both Paul and Mike, who if given a choice when they were lads, would have run around like wild children. Of course, then Paul grew up, and realized that when his auntie tucked his hair behind his ears and said, “Ah, such a handsome lad, our James,” she wasn’t too far off the money.

Paul belatedly realized that John’s smirk had slipped into a grin. He pursed his lips and kicked at John’s feet. “You wanker. This was what you wanted all along.”

“Call it me powers of persuasion,” John growled in his best Scouse. Paul laughed and shoved John’s grabbing hands away. Hopping out of his seat before John had a fit of madness and leaped over the kettle, Paul said, “Fine, fine! Bloody hell.” He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and went about finding a comb and the like, rolling his eyes when John cheered raggedly.

“I’ll be a good lad,” John promised behind him. Paul sorted through the cutlery drawer to find the scissors left here for hair purposes alone.

“Wonders may cease,” Paul reminded him over his shoulder.

There came a hush of smoke and rain, and then John leaned against the counter beside him. Paul’s profile prickled beneath John’s half-lidded scrutiny. His hip was close to Paul’s hand on the lip of the drawer; he could feel John’s body heat, and he caught the faint scent of John’s cologne beneath the warm damp.

“Alright then,” John said lowly. The timbre of his voice made Paul swallow. “I’ll not be good.”

“That might not be helpful,” Paul replied, trying to keep his tone light. He found the scissors and closed the drawer. He met John’s gaze. They were much closer than he initially thought. John blinked once, the slow fan of eyelashes across his cheeks making Paul’s resolve soften.

The corner of Paul’s mouth hitched into a smile. When he leaned into John’s space, he heard John’s breath catch. Heat rushed under his skin.

“Not helpful,” he added, “in more ways than one.”

John’s eyes darkened. He was very still. “Is that so.”

Paul suddenly snipped the scissors in front of John’s face. John blinked quickly in surprise, and Paul laughed.

“No,” he teased, as John swore. “Now sit down and behave.”

Grumbling though obedient, John found some newspaper and spread it on the floor. Paul went upstairs to find a comb and a handheld mirror that was once his mother’s. When he came back into the kitchen, John was seated on a chair in the middle of the room, looking for all the world like a storm cloud was above his head. There was even a tea towel draped over his shoulders. When he caught Paul’s eye, he scowled.

“Being good suits you,” Paul commented, smirking. The furrow between John’s brows deepened.

“This is extortion,” John complained. “Probably, anyroad. In my books it is.” He tried to turn around and glare at Paul, who stood behind his chair. If ye make me look even uglier… I’ll give ye five pound, because that’s impossible.”

Paul shoved at John to face the front. “You’re a complete headcase.”

“Should be the name of a barbers’,” John was saying as Paul started to comb his hair. “Might be a bit misleadin’, but it’d make for good publicity.”

“Puts a new spin on the word ‘headshot’.”

John snorted. “Mugshot, y’mean.”

Fluffy auburn hair slipped between Paul’s fingers. John’s hair was longer than he’d thought; the wave in it made it curl close to the roots. At least, he thought it did. Paul had a feeling trying to muddle out hairdresser talk would only end in disaster. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and concentrated on finding John’s parting.

John’s head had tilted back. When Paul accidently scratched his nails against John’s scalp, he made a low sound. Paul bit his bottom lip and looked down at John’s head.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be,” John replied softly. When Paul did it again, deliberate this time, John’s voice was strangled as he said, “Christ, Paulie. Cut me fuckin’ hair before I get creative.”

The temptation to continue the joke –  _Creative, hm? Might be I’m interested in what exactly ye mean –_ conflicted with the curl of heat in Paul’s gut. His hands didn’t tremble as he combed John’s hair into submission, although he half-imagined John could hear the way his pulse sounded in his throat.

Swallowing down nerves, Paul came around to fix John’s fringe.

John tipped his head back to catch Paul’s gaze. The light made John’s brown eyes gleam amber. The planes of his face gave him an austere, aristocratic air, and Paul didn’t have trouble imagining that in another life, John’s portrait would hang in a stately home.

Paul realized he’d paused for too long. John’s mouth had parted slightly as they’d watched each other. When Paul licked his lips and refocused on combing John’s fringe, he didn’t look away.

“You’re taller than me.” John’s voice was low, as if he were lost in thought.

Paul couldn’t chance meeting John’s eyes again. He combed up a section of hair, measured it, and tentatively snipped. A damp curl of hair landed on the front of John’s black turtleneck. “You’re just short.”

“I like tall blokes,” John continued. Paul’s heart thumped. “Goin’ up, y’know.”

“Not really,” Paul lied. He glanced at John’s steady eyes and tightened the bite on his bottom lip. Quietly, he asked, “What are you looking at?”

John’s throat bobbed when Paul drew the comb against his scalp. “Like you don’t know.”

It was sort of difficult to breathe. Paul zeroed in on the rhythmic sound of scissors. John’s nose whistled a little as he exhaled; Paul realized he found it endearing.

“I’m not sayin’ you have to spell it out…” Paul darted down a teasing smile.

“Oh, but ego,” John retorted, sarcastic, “y’know.”

Paul shrugged and grinned. “Well.”

“I save the compliments for the post-coital.” John was casual despite the heady images his words conjured. His steady eyes assessed Paul. “S’a matter of earning ‘em. I don’t believe in doling out the charm.”

Paul levelled John’s fringe above his eyebrows. “Is it charm if they’re true?”

John smirked. “You’d like it to be that way, I’m sure.”

“I’m a very good multi-tasker, I’ll have ye know.”

“Aye. Like a bird in that way.”

A coil of daring unwound within Paul’s veins. When he caught John’s eye, he let the flirtatious intent simmer between them.

Paul’s voice was low. “The  _only_ way.”

The corresponding flash of dark longing in John’s express was like a hot undercurrent. Paul pulled away with a hitch of breath. They fell silent as Paul continued to cut John’s hair, the snip of scissors intercepting the ticking kitchen clock, the drum of rain, and the hum of the fridge. Something warm and certain brimmed between them. Each time Paul brushed John’s skin, electricity snapped through him.

He moved John’s head gently. When he pushed him forward to start on the back, John’s eyes slipped closed. As Paul carded a hand through his hair to get it to settle, John shivered, the reaction nearly imperceptible. And when Paul at last murmured, “There, I think that’s it,” John roused himself as if he’d slid into a warm bath.

“This better be good.” John’s voice was gravelly with disuse. He took the mirror Paul handed him.

Instead of John’s sweeping long fringe, Paul had cut it much shorter, enough that it sat high above his eyebrows and sharpened his features. The back and sides were short, although Paul couldn’t do much about the way the ends curled just a little, softening John’s otherwise piercing expression. They looked at each other in the mirror’s reflection.

“You can keep your five pounds,” Paul said quietly.

John licked his bottom lip. “A poor bet, was it?”

“You were never going to win.” Paul could feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. “I’d have told ye that much earlier.” The invisible  _if you’d let me_ lingered in the warm air.

“Well, then.” Clearing his throat, John lowered the mirror and got to his feet. He put it on the kitchen table and Paul ducked his gaze to go over to the sink. Paul turned on the water and watched the tufts of hair swim down the plug hole.

He listened to John move about the kitchen: folding up the newspapers, putting the cut hair in the bin. His actions sounded slow, like he was stalling for time. Paul remained by the sink long after the comb and scissors were clean.

He sensed rather than saw John come up behind him. Paul turned his head slightly to watch John’s approach in his peripheral vision. When John stopped, close enough that Paul could hear his quick breaths and catch the scent of damp hair and laundry detergent, he turned so they could face each other.

John’s face was angular, arresting. He dragged a tongue along his bottom lip.

“No music this time,” Paul said, sounding alarmingly breathless.

There was something watchful in John’s expression. “No excuses,” he corrected softly.

Paul swallowed tightly. Their gaze didn’t waver. “Do you need one?”

“Paul.” The way his name sounded in John’s brogue made him shudder. John leaned his hands on either side of Paul’s hips and pressed in. Paul could feel the brush of John’s stomach as he breathed out. Tilting his head to regard him, Paul blinked slowly. John’s amber eyes tracked the movement in a slightly helpless fashion, like Paul had been unpicking his threads one by one, and only now did he feel himself come apart.

Paul’s body beat with their proximity. He glanced between John’s mouth and his steadfast look.

“Got any more coy comments?” John murmured.

“Only one,” Paul breathed, and kissed him.

The press of John’s mouth made him flush with heat. Paul frowned and drew him even closer, winding a hand around the back of John’s neck to urge him up; and John went instantly as he pushed Paul into the counter, his fingers finding the jut of Paul’s hips and digging thumbs into the divots there. John let out an unsteady exhalation against Paul’s lips as they shifted, Paul tipping his head to the side and opening their mouths. He felt himself ache where John touched him. When John smoothed a hesitant hand up Paul’s back, a rush of  _want_  prickled in the wake of his palm. Paul bit off a murmur and took John’s lower lip between his teeth instead. John made a sound in the back of his throat and leaned his weight into Paul’s firm front, effectively pinning him. The long, slow press of John’s body against his was unlike anything else; Paul’s groin tightened at the sensation and he had to breathe hard through his nose to remain in control.

Tightening his fingers at John’s newly-shorn nape made John hiss into his mouth. Paul smirked and did it again, revelling in the murmured curses against his tender mouth. They kissed more quickly, barely parting for breath, the wet sounding slick and heady between them. Paul reached up to grip the side of John’s neck with his free hand. Someone’s pulse thrummed against his fingertips. When he widened his legs, just enough that John nudged in tight, the sudden flush of their cocks made John break away with a sharp, “Oh, fuckin’ hell.”

Emboldened by such a reaction, Paul took a handful of hair and pulled John into another dirty kiss, their lips slipping together, intent pounding through every inch of his body. It felt as if his nerves were set alight. Someone moaned, low and broken; Paul realized it was him.

Startled, he pulled away. They panted against each other’s mouths. John was too close to focus on, but Paul glimpsed a high, damp flush on John’s cheeks, and the sight made his cock throb. Paul closed his eyes and concentrated on coming down. When John started kissing him again, short and firm, Paul dissolved.

After an inarticulate amount of time, Paul broke the kiss. His lips, when he licked them, tasted like John. He blinked until he found John’s eyes, which were blown black.

“Sorry,” Paul said absently, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Sorry, I –”

“Trust you, McCartney,” John murmured roughly, “to kiss a bloke like that, then apologize for it.”

His eyes dropped to John’s mouth, which was burned red and slightly damp, and Paul swallowed past the lump in the throat. John smiled as he watched. It was something so soft, so intimate and patient, that Paul immediately leaned in for another kiss. John’s breath hitched as he did so.

They leaned into each other. John’s grip on Paul’s hips made him curl in pleasure; when Paul opened his mouth, and threaded his fingers through John’s soft hair, John groaned quietly.

John drew gently away but Paul followed, winding his arms around John’s neck to bring them back flush together. Their lips felt tender and swollen. John made another sound and broke the kiss to lean their foreheads together. He huffed out a laugh. Paul breathed shallowly through his mouth.

“Christ,” John mumbled.

Paul bit down a teasing smile. “Thanks.”

They were too close to see each other properly, but Paul felt John’s eyelashes when he blinked, and he glimpsed a dimple as John grinned. Paul closed his eyes and felt his pulse beat, slow and sweet, against his skin. John was a warm weight against him; the pressure made Paul think of drawing John down on top of him, sheets rucking beneath them, and he arched upwards on instinct.

John exhaled unsteadily. He was sweeping a thumb over the divot of Paul’s hip. He pulled away just enough so they could watch each other. A bright flush gave John a slightly mussed appearance, his hair fluffy where Paul had carded his hands through it, and his eyes were hitched at half-mast, steady and calm.

“I thought y’were comin’ onto me,” John said lowly.

Paul tilted his head in bemusement. “What?”

“The first time we met.” Amber eyes darted down to Paul’s mouth. Something hesitant but playful glittered in John’s expression. “You put on Elvis. Thought it was a come on.”

 _I thought I could live without romance,_ Elvis’ voice drifted through his mind, _until you came to me…_

Was that what Paul had been doing? The thought made him grin cheekily. “Mm. Might have been. You were one of the most interesting people I’d ever seen.”

“Keep goin’ like that,” John warned, “and I’ll never let ye out of this room.”

“Caught you off balance, have I?”

John pressed Paul back into the counter. “Aye, I’m like to fall to me knees.”

An image thrummed through Paul’s mind. “That can be arranged,” he managed.

When John glanced back at his mouth, Paul took the hint. But as he smiled softly and tipped his head for another kiss, there came the distant sound of the key in the front door. Paul’s heart leaped into his throat. They sprang apart just as the door swung open, bringing with it the rush of the downpour outside. Jim huffed and coughed as he wiped his shoes on the front mat. He passed the kitchen doorway to find Paul hovering by the sink, fixated by the dishes. John was reading the newspaper at the table. Jim glanced between them.

“Hello, boys.” Pushing his glasses up his nose, Jim focused on John, who shot to his feet as if he’d been electrocuted.

Paul cleared his throat. “Hi, Da. What, uh – what are you doin’ back at this time?”

“I’m only back for a tick. I’ve got a sale in Woolton.” Jim adjusted his briefcase and held out his hand to John. “James McCartney. Who might you be?”

Looking slightly sick, he said, “John Lennon. I’ve ‘eard a lot about ye.”

John’s voice, which was roughened both by Scouse and Paul’s tongue, made Jim’s lips thin. “I see. Well, good to meet you.” Without a glance at Paul, Jim left the kitchen and started up the stairs. The drift of cool air through the hallway brushed against Paul’s overheated skin.

They shared a look. John smirked.

Paul held up a warning finger. “Don’t even try it, Lennon.”

“Thank Christ you’re movin’,” John muttered. “Not sure I can handle too many more interruptions.”

“There are ways to get around that,” Paul replied, and John raised an eyebrow and said, “Is that an offer, McCharmley?”

With as much sweetness as he could muster, Paul teased, “I’m only suggesting y’carry out a controlled explosion.”

John leaned back against the table and crossed his arms. His amber eyes, clearer without the brush of an overlong fringe, dragged up Paul’s slender legs, his sharp waist and broad shoulders, to meet Paul’s gaze. His smirk was a promise. “Might be I need some help with the set up.”

Paul shrugged casually. “I come highly recommended.”

“Now that’s a sentence with a lot of meanings.”

Before Paul could ask for clarification – John’s smirk had deepened – Jim came back down the stairs. He had a dry trench coat on and carried an umbrella in his free hand. He looked between them and nodded goodbye. At his retreating back, Paul called, “Bye, Da.”

When they were alone again – the motor of Jim’s old Ford Anglia growled over the drum of rain – John gave a low whistle.

“Man of few words, is old Jimbo.”

Paul grinned and pushed off from the counter. As he walked dramatically towards John, he pretended to swoon. “Ah, the war! It does things to a man!”

“Capitalism does things to a man,” John corrected as Paul bracketed him against the side of the table. The look in John’s eyes was so soft, his smile so tender. There was an echo of hesitancy when he put a hand to the dip of Paul’s waist, like he was half afraid this were all a dream.

Paul leaned their weight together. The long press of John’s flat body against his stoked the desire that simmered in his veins. He nosed along John’s sharp jawline. The damp scent of cologne mingled with tobacco and tea, and something that might have been dusty book pages. With a startled inhale, John tilted his head back, exposing the column of his throat. Paul very gently ran his lips along a beating pulse point and, with a hand to John’s hip to steady himself, touched his tongue to the skin there.

He _felt_ John’s heartbeat skip. The sensation was giddying. Paul opened his mouth and began to suck. John shuddered and sank his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Oh,” John breathed brokenly, “ _fuck._ ”

Paul tasted the words in his mouth – _not yet, be patient –_ but he kissed them instead, alternating his mouth and tongue, concentrating on that one point of reddened skin. John breathed quickly, his palms heavy and hot on Paul’s waist. He kept up a steady stream of murmurs, each of them curling into Paul’s ear and dripping down his spine to pool, steady as honey, in his groin. Paul dragged his tongue over the bruise. That pressure alone made John’s hips catch upwards, like he’d been taken by surprise.

“Paul,” he growled.

Paul nipped at the love bite and smiled into John’s neck. “Yeah?”

“Whatever you’re – oh, _fuck_ – whatever the fuck you’re thinkin’ of doin’ –”

He pulled away just enough to regard his handiwork. The side of John’s neck bloomed red, the shape of Paul’s mouth wet and clandestine beneath the top of John’s black turtleneck. Paul glanced up and grinned at John, then reached up to smooth a thumb over the mottled skin.

“I think that’s about it for today,” Paul said nonchalantly, “wouldn’t want to distract you too much, y’know.” John made a strangled sound. “That’s just be _rude,_ really, wouldn’t it, and I’d not want our worker to go off all silly and –”

John ducked in to kiss him. They laughed into each other’s mouths. Paul’s heart beat quick as he gripped the table behind John and pressed close. When they parted with a soft sound, John’s amber eyes were burred with desire. Paul’s chest tightened.

“I’ve got the day off,” John reminded him, voice pitched low. He tightened his grip on Paul’s hips and leaned back. “Now, then. How about ye show me your bedroom before I do somethin’ that’ll make old Jimbo hit the roof?”

Shit, his father. Paul hesitated. Something flickered in John’s expression.

“Or not,” John added. “We could – not. That’s fine too.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Daft bugger. S’not that. I only…”

“Consummation has the breaks on,” John surmised. Paul half expected John’s grin to be cruel, but it was only teasing, a small dimple appearing as he watched Paul with warm eyes. “Suppose I can wait that long. Won’t be easy, mind.”

“No,” Paul replied innocently, “I’d imagine it’d be quite hard.”

John barked out a laugh. “It’s not enough ye leave me high and dry, you’ve got to put dirty thoughts in me mind as well?”

Smirking, Paul leaned in until their mouths were barely touching. “Thought that was a given,” he murmured, “what with you being a randy bastard half the time.”

“That transparent, am I?” John asked, and Paul nodded solemnly.

“Oh, yeah. Obvious. Plain as bloody day. Dangerous, really, if y’think about it.”

“Woe betide the folk who cross my path.” John glanced down at Paul’s lips. His throat bobbed when he swallowed. Paul flushed at the sight.

“God help them,” Paul agreed. And before he could think too much about it, they kissed again.

If he were in a clearer frame of mind, Paul might have thought about how easy it was, to be with John like this in the tiny kitchen in Forthlin, with the rain coming down outside, and the clock ticking on the wall. With the sound of John’s hushed breaths and the hitched noises he made in the back of his throat; the way his hands tightened on Paul’s body, as if part of him thought Paul would slip away.

It was so easy. Paul hadn’t realized it could be this easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos a happy writer doth make! ❤️️ and if this killed you..... good. because i think i'm still recovering after writing this. next chap is wip and on the way!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last: the new chapter! this beauty is ~13k, so i really hope you enjoy it! the next update may not be for a while because of Real Life things, however the rest of this fic is planned in its entirety, i know exactly where we're going, what will happen, et al, so please be kind and patient with me, and i hope to have the next installment up soon ;~)
> 
> coupla things about all this. the term "beard" originated in the mid-1960s, but i've appropriated it for this context. i think '63 is reasonable enough. and given liverpool was a port city (and the term is american), i have theorized that the likelihood of such a term reaching liverpool earlier is reasonable enough. also, royston ellis visited liverpool in '60 and was technically "retired" as a poet by '63. i said fuck it for the purposes of this fic so just ignore accuracy in that respect.
> 
> i wanted to just give a shout out to [jenn](http://sunlaceandpaperflowers.tumblr.com/), who was brilliant and beta read this for me when i felt like i was going mad. thank you, sweetheart, you're amazing x
> 
> i also wanted to say @ [piv](http://pivoinesque.tumblr.com/)....... dear, i hope you still like this. and that it's still inspiring and fun to read and you're enjoying it. you're an excellent human and i'm still so pleased to dedicate this fic to you.

The following Saturday, Paul dragged John along to have a look at the apartment. He'd nicked Mike's camera for the occasion, although John had laughed when he'd seen it hanging around Paul's neck, and Paul was starting to wonder whether the flat would even warrant commemorating. The place was tiny: it was situated on the third floor of a tall, narrow building that blended with its equally austere, brown-stoned neighbours. Grafton was a quintessentially working-class suburb of Liverpool just out of the city centre. Unpopular for its proximity to the docks, the steep streets tilted slightly towards the murky Mersey water, the cobblestones a remnant of a time when fishermen would traipse home to their petticoated wives. There was a pub on the corner, a scattered row of local shops, and a church a block away, the bell of which pealed as they trekked towards number thirty-three, sounding up and down the narrow streets with sardine-tin buildings.

John complained the whole way. “And what, you’re supposed to ride yer bleedin’ bicycle up this hill every fuckin’ day?”

“It’s good exercise,” Paul countered, although the prospect of labouring home every evening – especially in winter – wasn’t a comforting one.

True to what Martin had said, the land lady was a pleasant woman with a dog that resembled a ball of dust. “He’s harmless, really,” she assured them, as the dog yapped around their feet and tried to tug on the laces of John’s work boots.

The communal stairwell was draughty, and the wooden front door of what was to be Paul’s apartment peeled with old paint. Each floor shared a bathroom located separately and down the hall, but Paul’s neighbour was apparently away often on business. “Not that I ask what it is, mind,” the land lady said, tapping the side of her nose. “I’m no gossip.”

“What a Good Samaritan y’are,” John deadpanned, and Paul elbowed him in the ribs.

Once they left the confines of the narrow stairwell, the apartment itself wasn’t half bad. Instead of a foyer, the front door opened into a small sitting room, which adjoined a poky kitchen with an old-fashioned hob and a wide window that overlooked the street below. You could do the washing up and, on a clear day, have a view right across the water and the dockyards.

Plain, white-washed walls and knobbly wooden floorboards. An operational fireplace in the sitting room. High ceilings with yellow hanging lamps. The furniture was cheap: “Does it come with the lease?” Paul asked, inspecting an especially ratty settee.

“If you take a fancy to it,” she replied, hands in the front pocket of her floral apron. John sat in an armchair and was almost swallowed by it. As Paul laughed at him, she frowned and said, “Mind yourself, now.”

The bedroom was at the back of the flat, the double windows opening onto the laneway that ran between the building and the next street over. There would be space for a brass double bed and perhaps a wardrobe, but anything beyond that would be pushing it. Paul ran a hand over the fading floral wallpaper and gazed around the room.

“Needs some tender loving care,” John observed by the windowsill, against which he leaned and tapped a cigarette against his wrist. He peered out at the dreary yard below. “Sure as hell not like dear old Forthlin.”

It’s not like Forthlin at all, Paul wanted to say, which is why I want it.

“D’you mind if I give it a paint and the like?” he asked the land lady. She shrugged in the doorway. Her little dog bustled into the room to sniff at the skirting boards.

“I don’t mind what you do, dear, so long as it’s in good shape at the end. How long will you be wanting the lease for?”

John’s figure burned in Paul’s peripheral vision. The moment he’d stepped into the flat, he’d seen a kaleidoscope of weekends and evenings: lighting the fire on drizzly afternoons, sitting together and reading, making tea and chatting over newspapers. Then other, more intimate things: tangled in white sheets, kissing John against the kitchen counter, tracing the length of John’s spine with his tongue.

No Mike, no Jim. Nothing except John and Paul, and a place that could be their own.

Startling him, John’s voice sounded from the window. “D’ye need a time limit on these things?”

Paul met John’s half-lidded eyes through a cloud of smoke. The land lady shifted her weight and opened her mouth to reply. John slowly raised his cigarette to his mouth.

“I’ll take it,” Paul blurted. He tore his gaze away and smiled at the land lady, who was surprised but pleased. “I’ll sign whatever y’want. I love it; I do.”

Afterwards, when she shuffled downstairs to get the right papers, closing the door behind her and the dog, John and Paul drifted out to look around the kitchen. They felt the building settle around them. There was the distant sound of children in the street, and the blare of horns of ships going up and down the Mersey. Water gurgled in the pipes. Paul breathed in the scent of wax and wood. When he looked over at John, he couldn’t stop grinning.

John’s expression was soft. “Get you. Five minutes outta the familial abode and you’re actin’ like it’s a new lease on life.”

“Isn’t it?” Paul looked out the window. The sky was slate grey and blustery, the trees across the way waving skeletal branches in the crisp autumn air.

“S’pose,” John admitted quietly. When Paul turned back to look at him, he was leaning against the hob and smoking. They watched each other.

Paul glanced at John’s mouth. He wondered about crossing the kitchen – his kitchen – to press a quick kiss to John’s lips; those same lips that were currently curled warmly around a cigarette, each pull of smoke so characteristically short and sharp, as if John were loitering on a street corner on the lookout for the police. The moment lingered between them. John’s fringe was fluffy from the cool air, the silver light from the window making his auburn hair appear dusty and soft. Dressed in a black turtleneck and a big navy duffel coat, John’s legs were crossed at the ankle, his boots trailing laces, his free hand looped into the belt of his drainies.

Paul was struck with an idea. But when he reached for the camera slung around his neck, John coughed on an alarmed exhale.

“No,” he said flatly. “Not in your wildest dreams, son.”

“Go on,” Paul wheedled with his best smile. He lifted the camera and raised his eyebrows. “One photo. Please.”

John pursed his lips. “No. And that’s final.”

“It’ll just be one,” Paul said quickly. “One photo. Come ‘ead. It’ll be over before y’know it.”

“I’ll make the damn thing burst into flames,” John warned, but he flicked his cigarette ash into the sink and settled back against the sage green cupboards with a look that was caught between resignation and amusement.

“You’re too easy,” Paul teased, lifting the camera. He focused through the lens. John blinked rapidly, glancing between the camera and the floor. Nervous anticipation flitted beneath his façade. The weak winter sunlight suddenly crept through the cloud cover to pour into the kitchen, illuminating John’s aquiline nose, his full brows, and the sullen cast to his mouth. Paul swallowed at the sight.

“Stop fidgeting,” he mumbled after a beat.

John scowled at him. “Bugger off.”

Paul lowered the camera to give him a look. “C’mon. One good photo. Smile, John. S’not that hard.”

“Says you,” John grumbled. Sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and crossing his arms, John adopted a pose that wouldn’t look astray on a poster for wayward Teddy Boys. Paul grinned and snapped the shot.

Thinking himself free, John’s expression immediately smoothed. When he resumed smoking, Paul snuck another photograph.

John looked comically outraged. “Oi! That’s cheating, that is.”

“Mm, is it, though?” Paul yelped when John aimed a kick at his shin.

“Burn it,” John advised, and Paul said, “You’ve got a low opinion of me artistic sensibilities.”

John jabbed his cigarette in his direction. “Someone’s got to, or you’ll be able to use your inflated head to float down that bloody hill.”

Making a thoughtful noise, Paul clicked the reel on his camera and grinned cheekily. “Least it’s good for something.”

John rolled his eyes and laughed. “Fuckin’ optimists,” he marvelled.

He wished there were a way to see photographs immediately; Paul needed to see how John had come out. Leaning back against the sink, Paul regarded John with a warm smile, toying with the camera still in his hands. “Like you’re not,” he said. “Big Bad Lennon. Is that how you see yourself?”

“Are you saying I’m not those things?”

“Perception is a funny thing,” Paul quipped.

“Oh, aye. And I suppose you’ve got front row seats, do ye?” John finished his cigarette with a final suck and chucked it in the sink. Exhaling a stream of smoke over one shoulder, he settled back to watch Paul through his eyelashes.

Paul idly watched the way John licked at his bottom lip. “All I’m saying is that from my seat, you’re not as tough as you make out to be.”

“Well.” John pushed off from the opposite counter. With his hands in his pockets, he closed the short distance between them. The toes of their boots brushed. Leaning in with a lazy smile, he said, “Sounds like I’ve got some damage control t’do.”

“You might call it damage control,” Paul pointed out.

John’s eyebrows quirked. “You don’t?”

They were close enough that when Paul smiled, he noticed John dart a glance to his mouth. “I like it,” Paul admitted quietly.

“And what else do you like?” John asked after a beat.

“Oh,” Paul said, voice breezy, “I don’t do compliments until the post-coital.” He winked and John gave him an irritated, bemused look. “I’m not one to dole out the charm, y’know, it seems so cheap, s’much better when you earn it –”

“Yeah, yeah, point taken,” John retorted sarcastically. They grinned at each other. Happiness swelled in Paul’s chest. He slowly reached out to hook a thumb into the loop of John’s belt, which made John smirk when Paul pulled them close together. Steadying himself on the counter either side of Paul, John brushed their noses together. Paul could feel John’s chest rise and fall with each breath; cold air mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his coat.

Paul’s mouth parted softly; their lips caught between them. His heart kicked and he felt his eyes slip closed. John nudged forward to kiss him chastely. Even that made Paul’s blood curl in his veins. How could something so simple feel so – _Easy_ , he thought again, the tangling in the back of his mind. Paul tilted his head and caught John’s full bottom lip between his own. They kissed over and over, each press short and sweet. Paul smoothed his hands around John’s lower back, sliding beneath the duffel coat, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palm.

When they parted, Paul could only think about going in for another. Something must have stirred in his gaze because John exhaled unsteadily against his mouth.

“Steady on, Paul,” he murmured.

It was nothing at all for Paul to kiss him once more; for John to make a rough sound in the back of his throat.

“Come on,” John tried, even as Paul kissed him again. “That woman'll be back at any –”

They kissed more fully, Paul pressing up into John’s weight, opening their mouths to slip his tongue along John’s bottom lip. Desire thrummed in his bones. Only the distant sound of a door closing made them break apart; a glance into the living room confirmed it was probably the land lady somewhere downstairs. Paul looked back at John and the softness he found there made his heart skip.

Paul’s lips parted wetly. “Alright?”

John’s expression was unreadable. Slow amber eyes trailed over Paul’s features. And when he replied, “I’m not the one with a camera, am I,” the implication sent something wild and hot zipping through Paul’s system.

“D’you… I mean.” Paul glanced down and quickly unlooped his camera from around his neck. He held it up to John’s chest. Their gaze snagged. “You can,” Paul added softly. “If you want.”

John took the camera. Long, clever fingers contrasted with the black shellac casing. Beautiful hands, Paul thought vaguely.

“Alright,” John echoed. “But only if I get to keep it.”

There was a lump in his throat. “What for?” Paul asked, sounding breathless.

The corresponding smile cracked John’s still, intense expression. Leaning away and raising the camera, John said, “What d’ye reckon?”

“A keepsake?” Paul tried. “A memento?”

The light caught the lens as John adjusted the focus. “Keep goin’,” he replied indistinctly.

Paul licked his lips, thinking. The camera shuttered suddenly. Paul fidgeted with the edge of the counter behind him and tilted his head to look straight into the lens. When it snapped again, he smirked.

“Might make a good postcard,” Paul suggested lightly. “Somethin’ to write home about.”

“A pin-up,” John interrupted. Paul went hot. “For the wall beside me bed.”

Paul’s voice, when he found it, was strangled. “You don’t reckon that’ll make Mimi suspicious? Havin’ a photo of a lad by your bed?”

“She’s never said anythin’ before.” When Paul blushed and bit his lip, John snapped another photograph. He lowered the camera slowly. His eyes were big and dark. They stared at each other for a convoluted moment. Paul’s breath caught and held in his throat.

“Christ, Paul.”

“Yes?”

But John only looked away and fiddled with the camera. They heard the scattered sound of the dog’s toenails in the stairwell. John handed the camera back to Paul, who took it quietly.

The land lady returned with the lease papers. Paul signed whatever she put in front of him, too preoccupied with the insistency of John’s figure in his peripheral vision. When John leaned into his side on the pretence of reading something about the rent, Paul’s fingers nearly slipped on the pen.

Saying goodbye to the land lady and closing the door behind them felt quite peculiar. As they went out into the street, a gust of crisp briny air made them shudder and hunch further into their coats. With their arms pressed together they began to wander back towards the city. Paul kept glancing at John from the corner of his eye.

“What’re ye doin’ tomorrow night?” John asked suddenly.

“Not much,” Paul replied, heartbeat quickening. “Study, probably. Why?”

In lieu of answering, John pulled out his cigarettes and went about lighting two of them. He passed one to Paul without being prompted; Paul murmured, “Ta, Johnny.”

The street started steeply downhill. John’s cigarette smoke was whipped away by the wind.

“Not sure if you remember,” John started, voice muffled from where he ducked his chin into the lip of his jumper. “That I do poetry and all that shite. Y’know. Writin’ me own stuff.”

“I remember,” Paul said. “You reckoned setting it to music was dead hard. Lazy bastard,” he added, knocking their elbows together.

John rolled his eyes, although he sounded pleased. “Not all of us are musical bloody prodigies, Paulie. Anyroad, I do readings sometimes. Of me poetry. S’just at the university with a bunch of bourgeois wankers, but it’s alright.” He paused. “Wondered if ye might like to come.”

“To hear your poetry?”

“Yeah.” John fidgeted with his cigarette, keeping it close against his mouth. He glanced sideways at Paul. “Y’don’t have to. S’fine. Most of the time these reading nights are pretty shite. All these students moanin’ about their boring lives. There’s grog, though. Sometimes we get other poets in to do their stuff. Proper stuff, published and all that.”

Paul was struck with how unfair it all was. The undercurrent in John’s voice – as if Paul wouldn’t want to hear his writing; like it’d be an imposition or something ludicrous like that – made him want to press John against a brick wall and snog him senseless. It was unfair that he couldn’t, not in a million years, not ever, probably. He felt his hand shake a little as he raised it to his lips. The hit of nicotine helped steady him, although Paul’s arm burned where it was pressed against John’s side. He caught John’s gaze.

“Of course,” Paul said seriously. “’Course, John. I’d love to. Thank you.”

“That’s enough now,” John replied, voice gruff. When they glanced at each other, he grinned.

* * *

The invitation to John’s poetry reading was open-ended enough that Paul thought it’d be alright if he extended it George’s way. Paul had a vague impression he’d talked to Maureen about writing – she was quite clever, for a hairdresser – and thought that perhaps George and her could tag along.

But Paul’s chirpy demeanour must have been too distinct from the past few weeks. The phone line crackled suspiciously. “’Ave ye found a bird?” George asked after a long pause.

Colouring, although he couldn’t see, Paul said tartly, “S’not like that. I feel better, that’s all. Change of pace. Anyroad, you free on the weekend? This one, I mean.”

George gave a low sigh. “Ah, man, I dunno. Women, you know. Not sure if she’d be up fer it.”

“Why?” Paul frowned. “What’s happened? What’d she do?”

“What makes ye think it’s her fault?” George replied. “You’re too hard on girls, ye know that, Paul? It’s probably on me.” He sounded so dejected that Paul made a face at the wallpaper in sympathy.

Apparently, Maureen wanted things to cool off for a little while. “She thinks we’ve moved too fast, like,” George explained. “I said we’d move at whatever speed she wanted to, no problem, but she’s not changed her mind.” There was a pause. “Sorry for unloadin’ on ye, Paul. You’re the only bloke I know who’d probably know what was going on in ‘er mind, like.”

Paul snorted. “How am I a mind reader of women?”

There was a shrug in George’s voice. “Always have been, haven’t ye. Are ye gonna help me, or not?”

“Well.” Paul twisted the phone cord around his fingers. “I was gonna invite you two to a poetry reading on Saturday. John asked me, and I’m asking you, so.”

“John?” When Paul made a noise of assent, George laughed incredulously. “John Lennon? That docker bloke? Bloody hell, Paul, what ‘ave you got yourself into.”

“Nothing! He’s a bit of alright. You want to come or not?”

George’s laugh faded. “Could do,” he replied reluctantly. “I’ll run it past Maureen. You know that Rory Storm is comin’ to town on Saturday? She wanted to go see ‘em so might be it’ll just be me.”

“That’ll be fine,” Paul said, and George sighed again. “S’not, though, is it? You and Lennon are bloody well attached at the hip now.”

His heart leaped nervously. Keeping his voice light and pleasant, Paul said, “Oh? I’d not noticed. You’re me best mate, Georgie. Come ‘ead, it’ll be grand.”

“Gear,” George deadpanned. “Fine, then. I’ll ask Mo. I’ll give ye a ring tomorrow.”

Once they’d said goodbye and hung up, Paul returned to his bedroom. He lay on the covers of his bed, one arm hooked behind his head, and smoked at the ceiling. The thing George had said about women kept going through his mind. He found himself, for the first time in a long while, thinking of Dot.

They’d been too young. Paul knew that now (and at the ripe age of twenty-one! He imagined John laughing at him; “Always so dramatic, is our Paul”). Dorothy hadn’t known what she wanted any more than Paul knew how to give it to her; and by the time they’d figured it out, she’d not even started showing. Paul ran his thumb along his bottom lip, gazing blankly at the curtain rail above the darkened window. A child. They might have been bound together, forever, if she’d had their child. Instead of looking for a flat for one, he might have been holed up in a suburban dive, coming home to a family.

The kid would have been three years old. Paul hadn’t let himself wonder at that before. It seemed sort of pointless – the baby had gone before it even mattered. He wondered what Dot was doing now. If she’d found another fella. If she’d have guessed he’d end up kissing blokes in kitchens, boys with quick tongues and amber eyes, whose mere touch made his skin run hot.

Part of him, deep down, suspected that she’d have guessed that and more. Even if she didn’t have a word for it, plenty of other people had words for what Paul was. What he was with John. What that made them.

Paul drifted into thought. After he finished his cigarette, he got up to have a bath, and then he returned to put on his pyjamas and get into bed. As he lay in the dark, he waited for the sense of guilt that he had once been so intimately familiar with. He recalled what it had been like, in those first weeks, months, when he’d realized that the word boys hurled at each other at school held meaning beyond a cruel insult. He’d stopped going to choir practice, he remembered suddenly. Jim had been irritated and confused about it all.

“You’re to go to church,” Jim said, looking down at his eldest son through his spectacles. “None of this childish nonsense.”

So, he had gone. How funny, to think that the habits he’d cultivated as a kid would continue into his adulthood. That even when he was old enough to shave, a sideways word from Jim sent him scurrying.

His bedroom seemed incredibly small. In the low light of his lamp, Paul looked at the rows of books on his bookshelf. At the bottom were neat piles of his old comics, Boy’s Own sort of things, all about adventure and boyish pursuits. He envisaged his bookshelf in his new flat, his new home. He pictured poetry volumes, books about art, maybe even music. Perhaps John would bring some of his things to keep at Paul’s place.

“A drawer to myself,” John might proclaim, grinning in that crooked way he had when he was amused but trying to hide it. “My, my. Makin’ fast work of me, are ye, Paulie?”

Paul swallowed as if John had spoken aloud in the quiet of his bedroom, the timbre of his voice rough and low. He prickled with warmth when he thought of kissing John in the kitchen earlier that day. The silver light had silhouetted John into the room of his mind.

Even if nothing happened beyond this, if they baulked from one another for whatever reason, Paul knew that place wouldn’t be the same. It would be like cutting a figure from a photograph and tracing the outline with your thumb. Like the sound of a half-remembered song. They were never as good as the real thing.

They couldn’t compare at all.

* * *

John found Paul outside smoking a cigarette.

The university campus swallowed them whole. Orange street lights winked in the blue dark, the black, bare trees stark against the clear, cold sky. Most of the old, brown-stoned buildings were swathed in shadow, but the Arts lecture theatre was illuminated from within. Student types lingered in the foyer, smoke and intelligent conversation drifting out to find Paul, who leaned against a brick wall, delaying the inevitable.

“Thought you’d be mingling with the masses,” John said in lieu of greeting, hooking his arms over the back of the wall to peer up at Paul.

Paul smiled down at him, cigarette drooping from his lips. “Seen and not heard, that’s me.”

John sniffed. “First time for everything. Come ‘ead, then, there’re people I want ye to meet.”

Dropping his cigarette to the pavement, Paul put his hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms. Anticipation trailed through his system. He wished suddenly that George could have come along; at least then he wouldn’t feel like a tit.

“Been talkin’ me up, have you?” Paul joked. He went around through the iron gate and started up the wide path towards the lecture theatre. John made to trip him, and laughed when Paul merely jumped over his outstretched leg and stuck out his tongue.

“Up, down, sideways.” John waved a dismissive hand. As they neared the front steps, the outside lights suddenly illuminated John’s narrowed eyes and assessing expression. With a shrewdness that Paul was rapidly becoming accustomed to, John added, “Here, you’re not bloody nervous, are ye?”

“No,” Paul muttered, and John retorted, “I’m the one who has to go up there and bare me fuckin’ soul. All you’ve got t’do is sit there and pretend to like it.”

Paul pursed his lips in John’s direction. “Yeah, ‘pretend’, sure. Leave off. S’not exactly like technical college is anything like university, is it?”

Their arms brushed as they started climbing the stone steps. John shrugged. “Exactly like, if ye ask me. They’re a bunch of nancies when ye get down to it. ‘My feelings are like a river’ and that sort of shite.”

Paul looked through the glass double doors to the crowd inside. He realized he was toying with his bottom lip, and made himself stop. The weight of John’s gaze on his profile made him look over.

“What?” Paul asked.

John blinked once, slowly. He leaned back and put a hand on the door handle. “Nothin’. Just – don’t worry. Alright?”

Something warm tangled in his chest. “Is that your version of a pep talk?”

“Gee whiz!” John enthused, launching into an American accent. “It sure could be! How about it, Paulie?”

“Fuck off,” Paul laughed, and shoved a grinning John through the door.

The foyer was much warmer than outside. They shrugged off their jackets and left them in the cloak room. At first Paul had thought the crowd was made up of students, but now he realized that there were several older couples here, and some grey-haired fogies that could be professors at the university. There was an intellectual undercurrent in the air; a sort of electricity that lent Paul’s quick pulse a thrum of excitement.

John was peering near-sightedly at the crowd. Across the foyer another set of double doors opened; some members of the crowd began moving towards them, conversation burbling in their wake. Without his glasses, John had an intense, piercing air – which was ruined when he suddenly elbowed Paul and motioned towards a girl on the far side of the room.

With a knowing glance, John said, “I’ve had her.”

Paul smirked and watched the tweed skirt go by. “Oh, really? Should have pegged you for someone who’d kiss and tell.”

“Only if they don’t count.” John kept fidgeting with a slim volume in his hands. When he scratched at his nose and made no move to follow the crowd into the theatre, Paul frowned.

“Alright?” Paul asked. “Here, you’re not the one needing a pep talk now, are you?”

“As if,” John snapped. He ran a hand suddenly through his hair, making it stand on end. Tapping the volume against his opposite hand, he stared at the double doors and thinned his lips. Paul waited patiently. When John finally scowled to himself, Paul said, “Ready?”

“This is fuckin’ stupid,” John grumbled as they joined the tail end of the queue. People jostled them occasionally; Paul leaned into John’s side and murmured, “Are you alright? Y’don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, John.”

John’s irritation was palpable. “I’m not a coward.”

“Didn’t say that,” Paul refuted gently. “But you don’t have to go up if ye don’t want to, y’know? Someone else could do your reading.”

They had drifted into the theatre. It was shabby but clean: the stark overhead lights illuminated the rows of wooden chairs, and at the other end there was a podium with a single stool beside it. A collection of students huddled at the space down the front, most of them with notebooks in hand. One of the boys was tall with smooth brown hair. He noticed John and Paul in the aisle and waved at them.

John went, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and Paul glanced between him and the boy, who was starting towards them.

“Bad news?” Paul asked wryly. John snorted, “In so many words.”

“John!” The boy stopped in front of them. He was very attractive, with slender features and slight, fey eyes that darted like silverfish. Like most of the students at the front, he too was clad in a tight black turtleneck and dark jeans. There was a touch of an accent to his tone. “Are you ready?”

John remained sullen. Paul quickly held out his hand and went, “Hullo, I’m Paul. John’s friend.”

“Klaus.” They shook hands; Klaus smiled warmly. He gave Paul a once-over and said, “You are studying too? I have not seen you in class.”

“Er, no,” Paul said, glancing at John. “I mean, I study, but I’m wanting to be a teacher. S’pose I’m just tagging along for tonight, y’know, art and culture and all that.”

“Welcome,” Klaus said after a pause. Looking at John, he tried again: “So, are you ready?”

“Listen here,” John blurted, “you don’t need me. Get someone else to take me spot. I don’t give a fuck, really.”

A few people seated close to them glanced over and frowned. Paul touched a hand to the back of John’s elbow, which John didn’t shrug off. He glared at Klaus and added, “Got it? I don’t care.”

Klaus blinked rapidly. “Um.”

“Get someone else to read,” John continued, jabbing his journal at Klaus’ chest, “not me.”

The lights dimmed once. Klaus looked over his shoulder at the other poets, many of whom were peering their way in confusion. Those already seated shifted their weight in anticipation; the conversation dropped to a murmur. Paul glanced awkwardly between them both. John had slipped into a closed-off expression, the one that Paul had noticed the first time they’d met: all John needed was his fuck-off work boots and his coal-stained overalls, and he’d be set.

The weight of curious eyes prickled the back of his neck. Paul bit his lip and leaned into John’s side. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, someone was getting up on stage. The lights fell with a hush. Klaus widened his eyes at John.

“Come,” he whispered urgently. “John! It will be fine. Come on.”

John turned abruptly and stalked back up the aisle. Paul shared a look with Klaus before hurrying after him. The last few rows of seats were empty – Paul snagged John’s sleeve and just managed to stop him from bursting through the doors.

Whirling around, John’s fierce eyes caught his in the gloom. “Whatever you’re gonna say,” he growled, “save it. M’not goin’ up there.”

Paul searched John’s expression with a frown. “But why not? You’ve got your stuff, all you have to do is –” Someone shushed at them. The speech from onstage sounded behind them, So pleased you could make it to our gathering…

“Stop that,” John interrupted, voice low and angry.

Paul stared at him. “What? I –”

John’s nostrils flared. “Don’t look at me like you know.”

Bloody hell. Now he really was lost. “John, I don’t know what you’re goin’ on about. What’s wrong?”

Someone shushed them again. Paul glared at them from over John’s shoulder.

“I’m shite, Paul. Alright. That’s it. No more, no fuckin’ less.” John made to shove past him. “I’m fuckin’ leaving.”

“Wait, John, shit –” Paul stayed on John’s heels out into the foyer. The bright lights made him blink. John was halfway towards the cloakroom when Paul grabbed his sleeve and made him stop. John ripped himself free and curled his lip.

“What, McCartney?” Spots of colour were high in John’s cheeks. “What the fuck d’ye want?”

“I want to know what’s wrong, John,” Paul said, exasperated. “You’ve got your work. You’ve got a spot in the program. Just bloody well go up there and do a reading.”

John scoffed and made to turn around again. Paul darted out and touched his forearm. “John, wait. C’mon. I mean it. What d’you want?” Mind racing, he added, “D’you want to go? We can go. If you want to, we can go.”

The front of John’s journal had a little doodle of a guitar on the cover. The sight made Paul’s heart clench. John’s eyes remained downcast. Rubbing his lips together, Paul drew closer and pressed the back of his fingers against John’s bicep.

“John,” he started lowly, “I know it’ll be great.”

“You don’t,” John replied, derisive. He glared down at his journal. “S’stupid. The whole thing. It’s a fucking joke.” He started shaking his head.

“It’s not stupid.” Paul started gently smoothing his thumb over John’s arm. “Hey. John. It’s not stupid. You’re not shite. I want to hear your poetry.” Ducking his head to catch John’s gaze, he smiled crookedly. “You made me sing my bloody song. Only fair, isn’t it?”

“Eye for an eye, ye mean.” When Paul shrugged coyly, John rolled his eyes.

After a pause, Paul said, “D’you just not want to read it, or something? Onstage, I mean.”

“No. Yes. I don’t fucking know.” John tipped his head back and exhaled at the ceiling. He pinched the bridge of his nose and remained that way for several moments. When he finally dropped his hand, he looked over at Paul with a flat look. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Paul ducked in and kissed him. Instantly he realized what he’d done and jerked away. John stared at him, wide-eyed. The cloakroom attendants bustled in the background, talking quietly. The ceiling didn’t fall in; no police stormed the foyer. But still Paul dropped his hand from John’s arm and took a step back. His fingers burned with John’s body heat.

John sounded slightly stunned. “Bloody hell, McCartney.”

“Alright,” Paul tried, embarrassed. The slow curl of John’s grin made him go, “Stop that. John. No.”

John’s grin broadened until his cheek dimpled. He drank in Paul’s flustered expression and stepped in to tap his notebook against Paul’s chest. “Well,” he started casually, “that was easy, wasn’t it?”

“Bugger off,” Paul mumbled, flushing, and John shook his head, his voice brimming with pleasure and amusement.

“Oh, no. I’ll remember this. Paul McCartney: when in doubt, kisses the lads.”

“Would you shut up!” Paul spluttered.

“Makes one wonder what he’d do if I’d point-blank refused,” John drawled. “All that creativity, you know. Goin’ to waste.”

Paul’s cheeks burned. “Incentive and reward,” he suggested lightly, and John made a thoughtful noise, his eyes glittering.

When he took another step closer, Paul could smell his cologne, the smoke that clung to his black jumper. John leaned into Paul’s ear. “Makes me wonder,” he said lowly, “at just what I’d have t’do to get you t’kiss me again.”

A thrum of heat made Paul catch his breath. He drew away so they could look at each other properly. He was seized with the desire to count the freckles scattered on John’s nose and cheekbones. John’s eyes shuttered; something warm and dark stirred his expression.

“Nothing,” Paul heard himself say. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“Always, all the time, is it?” John sounded like he wanted to turn it into a joke, but there was an undercurrent in his tone that belied hidden meaning.

Paul glanced over at the cloakroom. The attendants were out of sight. The dark night pressed against the windows of the foyer. A hum of voices from the theatre accentuated the quiet that settled around them. John’s lips were slightly parted. They watched each other. The imagined press of John’s mouth against his made his mouth feel full and tender.

“God knows why,” Paul answered after a pause.

John burst into laughter. Paul grinned and watched John run a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Their gaze snagged. John’s smile was warm and intimate.

With no warning, he suddenly smacked Paul’s arm with his notebook.

“Ow!” Paul was so aghast that John laughed again. “John! What the hell was that for?”

“Tough love,” John explained cheekily. “Come ‘ead, I’ve got a fuckin’ poetry reading to do, haven’t I?”

“What an incentive!” Paul retorted, although he followed John back towards the double doors.

The crowd was silent, listening to a girl onstage whose voice tilted with Welsh inflection. Paul made to slip into a seat up the back, but John immediately seized his sleeve and dragged him down the aisle, letting go only three rows from the front. Paul apologized to a couple of people as he edged along the row to find a seat; John slipped away into the gloom. After settling down, Paul crossed his legs and focused on the performance. John had slumped into a seat at the front and to the left: Paul found himself darting looks his way every now and then. When they applauded the girl’s final work, John met his gaze. They grinned at each other.

The work wasn’t half-bad, really. Paul reckoned most of it wouldn’t have sounded too off with a musical accompaniment. A piece by that Klaus bloke made him tap his fingers, thinking up chord arrangements. John had been right about the rivers of feeling, although Paul thought it slightly unfair to peg them all as pieces of angst-ridden nonsense. He felt himself relax as the performance wore on, each poem slipping into another, the cadence of people’s voices hanging in the darkened theatre.

Paul applauded loudly when John sloped down the front. Without his glasses he looked utterly lost; blinking beneath the bright lights, he scanned the crowd dismissively, then lifted his notebook.

He should have known. He should have known that this, like most things John did, regardless of how haphazard, belligerent, and half-arsed it ended up being, would be wonderful. Paul leaned forward in his seat, transfixed by the man onstage. John didn’t look up from his book as he spoke. His voice, usually so roughed by Scouse, took on a gentle, mediated tone. Paul found himself tapping his fingers against his chin as he listened. The cadence of John’s reading reminded him of those poets from America – the Beats – with their black clothes and languid smiles and stories written in the backseat of a run-down Cadillac. Heat prickled along Paul’s shoulders and gathered in his spine. There was something otherworldly about hearing that rhythm in John’s poetry, which spoke of Penny Lane and the Liverpool graveyard, of funny men in top hats and frogs in monocles. It was nonsense. Sheer, unbridled silliness. It was bloody fantastic.

When John finished, Paul stood to applaud. The crowd clapped dutifully, some of the audience members casting Paul amused looks. John peered out into the dark and fidgeted with his notebook. He rubbed the back of his neck, then leaned into the microphone and said, “Yeah, alright, thanks,” and dropped away to slope back to his seat. Paul watched John go, his chest feeling tight, the lump in his throat making it hard to swallow. He sank back down reluctantly.

Some of the students leaned over to pat John on the shoulder. He nodded and shrugged, clearly uncomfortable, then looked around to scan the crowd. Their eyes met. Paul broke into a grin. John snorted when Paul held up an exaggerated double thumbs up. _Wanker_ , he mouthed; Paul winked.

“Thank you, everyone. Thank you, John.” Klaus’ gently accented voice sounded through the microphone. Paul reluctantly looked away from John to focus on Klaus, who was smiling out at the shadowy audience. “Now, let me please introduce our special guest speaker –” A shiver of excitement went through the crowd. “All the way from London – Royston Ellis!”

Never heard of him, Paul thought. When he glanced over to John, he found John already looking over with an amused expression. John immediately pulled a grotesque face. Nice, Paul mouthed across the room.

A short, bearded, slender man took the stage to warm but polite applause. He was dressed in the uniform of the students: black turtleneck, tight trousers, and scuffed shoes. Ellis waved his hands at the audience. It was hard to pick his age: Paul guessed he must be in his thirties.

The following set of poems were surprisingly good. In true form to the Beat poets, Ellis was a rough-and-ready voice and spoke of expanding night skies and collapsing cities. The staccato words pitched and fell, Ellis only glancing up occasionally from his book, Rave, his free hand sculpting the air.

_Break me in easy._

_Easy, easy,_

_break me in easy._

“ _Sure there have been others_ ,” Ellis continued, gazing across the crowd, “ _but I know the way_.”

The words kept going around Paul’s mind. Each time the meaning filtered to the surface, it slipped away. Easy, easy. A snippet of his own thoughts curled in the gloom, _I didn’t think it could be so…_

Ellis’ poems echoed in the lecture theatre, his voice strong as plucked bowstrings. When his last verse lingered in the hush, the crowd burst into applause. Paul’s palms stung with the force of clapping. Ellis smiled bashfully, nodding his thanks, and Paul found himself grinning.

The lights in the theatre came on slowly. People began to stand and stretch their legs, the conversation swelling as they discussed the performances. Paul picked up his jacket and got to his feet. He peered over the heads of the crowd towards where John and the other poets gathered.

Klaus was gesticulating as he spoke to a slim girl with dark hair. When Ellis wandered over to the group, Klaus broke away, smiling, to greet him. Paul apologized his way through the crowd. When he reached the aisle, John turned around to peer over the theatre. When their eyes met, he quirked his eyebrows and met Paul halfway up the aisle.

“Told ye it’d be shite,” John said in lieu of greeting.

“You’re a bloody liar,” Paul told him plainly. John watched him for a moment before ducking his gaze and scuffing the red carpet with one well-worn heel.

“Yeah, well.” Shrugging, John glanced up, then gestured over his shoulder towards the students. “We’re goin’ for a pint. Coming?”

Klaus and Ellis were talking politely to one another; several of the other poets were pulling on coats, winding their mufflers up, laughing amongst themselves. Paul realized he was smiling. He looked back at John. “Don’t see why not.”

John barked out a laugh. “Got a busy schedule, ‘ave ye? Not keepin’ Paulie up, I hope?”

“Your poetry might,” Paul quipped. The way John’s nose wrinkled made his pulse quicken. They weren’t standing close enough. The remembered press of John’s mouth to his in the foyer made his lips feel warm and tender.

Heedless of Paul’s train of thought, John continued, “Aye, not a lad’s bedtime story, that’s fer sure.”

“Don’t reckon you’ve got a soft bone in your body.” Smirking, Paul gently nudged their elbows together. “Big Bad Lennon,” he teased.

“Another interesting sentence, Paul,” John pointed out casually. “Beginning to reckon you’re not half as daft as ye make out.”

Paul’s expression made John crow, “You’re too easy! Come ‘ead, don’t be like that. You’re still the prettiest girl at the party.”

Trying hard not to smile, Paul muttered, “Bugger off.” The sound of John’s laughter tightened his chest.

The students started up the aisle. With the exception of their clean-cut, black-clad group, the theatre was empty. A distant rattle indicated a cleaner was on her way. Klaus’ cheeks were flushed happily. He looked between them as they approached; Paul felt the warm press of John against his side as if it were a brand.

Putting on a smile, Paul said quickly, “Alright? Thought you lot did a fab job, like.”

“Thank you. Have you met…” Klaus reached behind him and guided Ellis forward with a touch to his shoulder. Ellis was slim and dark, silverfish eyes flickering above a beard that gave him the appearance of a wayward mariner. He nodded a shy hello.

“Roy-boy!” John darted over and immediately wrapped an arm around Ellis’ shoulders. Compared to John, Ellis appeared as lithe and small as an elf. Grinning down at his charge, John said, “No leather sheets this time, eh?”

In a modulated, Southern tone of voice, Ellis replied, “No, I thought it might disrupt the Dean and his wife.”

John was immediately irritated. “You fuckin’ what? Why did no one let me know?”

“Can hardly picket a lecture theatre,” Paul commented cheekily. John glared at him.

“Like that’s the point! Bloody well, if I’d’ve known, I’d let ‘im know just what I think of the posh twat and his fuckin’ other half –”

As a student loudly agreed, and John started sounding off, Klaus sidled up to Paul.

“Are you coming to the pub?” Now that Paul had heard his poetry, Klaus’ accent was barely noticeable. His soft brown hair was brushed forward over his forehead, giving him a particularly waif-like look that simultaneously reminded Paul of Mike’s mod style and of the posters of female models in the high street windows. “We all go, after a meeting. It is good to meet everyone together.”

“Yeah.” Paul looked away from John, who was holding court with characteristic verve. He smiled at Klaus. “Yeah, I will. Ta.”

“You’re welcome. Everyone ready?” The last part was addressed to the group at large. A chorus of assents urged them out of the theatre and into the crisp evening. The sky overhead was bruised navy, the shadows appearing black as ink around puddles of orange street lights. Even though the campus was a fair distance from the docks, still there was a rush of salt-bitten air that made them all shudder and turn the collars of their jackets up.

Paul chatted politely to Klaus as they lead their ragtag outfit out into the Liverpool streets. John’s voice caught and held on the wind behind them, his jokes making people burst into laughter, Ellis’ calm voice interjecting comments that made John exclaim loudly. This far into their – whatever it was – Paul felt like he could recognize the things that made John’s roughened Scouse warm with pleasure. Music, for one. Politics. Poetry.

Paul.

The last thought came unbidden to his mind. It flitted through and Paul had to bite him lip against the immediate urge to turn around and find John, to drag him away until it was just them, alone, a Lennon-McCartney bubble.

Seized by the swell in his chest, Paul quickly glanced over his shoulder. Without his fringe or the brim of his flat cap, John’s face was illuminated by the overhead street lights. The small pin on the lapel of John’s coat glowed red in the gloom. John's half-mast eyes found him instantly. 

 _I feel like I know pieces of you,_ Paul thought suddenly. The socialist; the musician; the writer.

For Paul, it was black and white. A teacher or a musician. John existed in between, in a state of constant flux, pitching as wildly and impetuously as the cold ocean current.

John smiled slowly and tilted his head. Something warmed his steady amber gaze.

“Paul?” Klaus’ voice drifted to attention. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” John’s smile had blossomed into a grin. And as if he knew what Paul was feeling, he winked. Paul bit down a laugh and made himself turn away. Behind him, as nonchalant as you please, John started to whistle the tune to Elvis. _Wise men say only fools rush in…_

The next lines made Paul’s cheeks burn. “Yeah, sorry,” he said belatedly, “lost me train of thought.”

They ended up at Ma Egerton’s. It was the closest to the campus at this time of night, and as Klaus assured him, “The beer is very cheap.”

The pub was in the Tudor style, with whitewashed walls and big dark beams. Most of the clientele were quiet regulars, labourers mainly, and a few of them looked askance at their group of loud, young students. The bartender grunted as they approached the counter, crowding around the stools and laughing to each other. A couple of men across the open, square bar glanced over in interest, huddled as they were over their pints. Below the buzz of conversation was the hum of the radio’s evening channel. Paul crossed his arms on the counter. John materialized beside him, their shoulders knocking.

In the crush to get drinks, Ellis ended up on Paul’s other side. He and John were in the middle of a conversation about his age.

“I’ve got a bet running,” John confided to Paul, leaning closer than was strictly necessary. Paul smiled softly down at him. John glanced up at Paul, then focused on Ellis with a wicked grin. “Roy-boy’s immortal. Either that or he’s sixty.”

Paul looked at Ellis with raised eyebrows and hummed. “Good skin care regime, mate.”

“Spend a lot of time primping, do ye?” John added.

“I’m the same age as you,” Ellis said wryly. John and Paul affected shock. Slipping into a plummy accent, Paul exclaimed, “What blather! We don’t believe him, do we, Mister Lennon?” John thumped a fist on the counter. “Certainly not! Off with his head!”

Ellis laughed. “It’s the beard, or so I’m told. It makes one quite mysterious.”

“Definitely the beard, mate.” John gestured to his face and wrinkled his nose. “Makes ye look dead old, that.”

“[John’s got a beard](http://andrejkoymasky.com/lou/dic/b/bear2.html),” Paul commented. “Couple of years now, isn’t it, John?”

“Shut yer gob, McCartney.” There was no heat in John’s words. He turned away to flag the bartender. Ellis watched the exchange with interest, although he pretended not to.

Paul leaned surreptitiously into John’s side, their arms burning against one another; his heart skipped when John leaned back. Paul made himself focus on Ellis and ask politely, “So. How’d you get into poetry?”

Ellis accepted a glass of shandy from the bartender and thanked him. “Oh, you fall into these things. Seventeen, I believe. Young and foolish.” He rolled his eyes, good-natured, and smiled at Paul.

Thinking of NEMS, Paul said, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Behind him, John had entered a friendly exchange with the bartender. “’Ang on, ‘ang on,” he said indistinctly, elbowing Paul between the shoulder blades. “Oi, Paul.”

“One second,” Paul told Ellis, then looked over his shoulder with raised eyebrows. When their eyes met, John broke into a broad grin; Paul bit his lip. “Reason why you’re interrupting me, Johnny?” he asked lightly.

“Oh, sorry,” John replied, ever sarcastic. In a normal tone of voice he added, “Pint, Paulie?”

Paul winked at him. “Ta.” He was still grinning when he looked back at Ellis. “Sorry about that. Um. Poetry, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so,” Ellis replied. He gestured in John’s direction. “Forgive me if this is – How long have you and John…?”

Paul’s heart thumped in sudden fear. “Best mates, we are,” he replied brightly. “Shall we sit down?”

He steered Ellis over to a corner by the window. A few of the students followed suit, all of them crowding around two tables they shoved together. Glasses cluttered the table; cigarettes were lit. Unwinding his muffler, Paul watched John at the bar in his peripheral vision. When John turned around, two pints in hand, Paul looked away and found Ellis watching him. There was an uncomfortably perceptive glint in his expression.

“Poetry, I think,” Ellis prompted.

Paul smiled on reflex, his pulse quickening with nerves. “That’s it.”

“Here, Paul.” John plopped an overflowing pint in front of him. As Paul said, “Thanks,” John grabbed a chair and squashed himself in beside Paul. Immediately hunching over and taking a long pull of dark beer, John mumbled through a mouthful, “You’ve not met everyone, ‘ave ye?”

“Don’t reckon so, no.” John promptly made a round of introductions. Everyone smiled and nodded at Paul, who said, “Alright, how’re you, good?” John clapped a hand to a bloke with a broad nose and a shock of dark hair. “And this,” he said, swaying the bloke’s shoulder, “is Rod. One of me mates from the institute.”

“Hiya,” Paul said, leaning over to shake Rod’s hand. “Do you do poetry too, then?”

“God no,” Rod laughed. “I'm an outsider, like John. Here for moral support, aren’t I? Rose is the poet.” The girl sitting beside him heard this and blushed. Paul winked at her.

“Welsh, right? I liked your opening piece.”

“Thank you,” Rose replied, leaning around Rod’s bulk. She glanced at her boyfriend and curled a hand around her drink, a warm smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I would have been better if Rod hadn’t distracted me so, like.”

“Ah, you’d hate it if I didn’t,” Rod said expansively, grinning. John caught Paul’s eye and smirked as Rose dissolved into giggles.

Leaning into John’s side, Paul murmured, “I’d have something or two t’see about distractions meself.”

“Is that right?” Expression glittering, John pulled back to regard Paul over the top of his pint, which he held halfway to his mouth. His lips were red and damp with beer. Paul had a convoluted desire to lick them. “What’d that be regarding then, young Paul? The barber on Penny Lane or the ugly mug stupid enough to get on stage?”

“Can’t remember,” Paul said innocently. “Probably the architecture.”

“Aye, mighty nice, that,” John said, and Paul teased, “That podium was terribly eye-catching.”

John’s corresponding half-laugh and grin warmed his eyes until they burned in the low, yellow light. Soft hair curled over his forehead, making him appear abruptly young, even despite the low timbre of his voice, or the way he put his pint down and pulled out a cigarette pack. John didn’t look away as he tapped out a cigarette against his wrist. He put one in the corner of his mouth, feeling his inside pocket for a lighter.

Paul held out his own and clicked it open. The flame wobbled between them. With steady eyes and hands John leaned forward, long fingers keeping the cigarette still in his mouth. His eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. With a puff of smoke the end of the cigarette bloomed into being. John sucked once, then caught Paul’s gaze with a flick of his eyes. Silver streams trickled from between his lips as he removed the cigarette. He held it out to Paul and murmured, his tone burred with tobacco, “Smoke, Paul?”

It felt as if Paul’s blood simmered just beneath the surface of his skin. Heat pooled into his cheeks. He took the cigarette slowly, watching the way John’s mouth parted slightly as he did so. When he brought the cig up to have a drag, John’s tongue darted out to wet his top lip. Smoke caught in his chest at the sight.

“D’you want to come over this weekend?” Paul asked quietly. He ducked his head to ash the cigarette, watching John through dark lashes. “M’moving in.”

The words hovered between them, with all they implied; promised. John’s throat shifted as he swallowed.

“Yeah,” he replied, equally low. “Alright.”

Someone’s comment made the table erupt in loud laughter. Paul pulled out of John’s personal space; he’d not realized they’d drifted so close together. John blinked, looking dazed, and slowly made to light himself a cigarette of his own.

Ellis spoke from across the table. “Are you moving house, Paul?”

Paul tore himself away from John to regard Ellis with surprise. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. Long time coming,” he added with a sideways smile.

“He needs me for the heavy liftin’,” John explained through a cigarette. Clicking his lighter closed, he shot Paul a warm look and leaned back in his chair. He exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “What’s the use of workin’ at the fuckin’ dock if there’s no muscle to show fer it.”

“Oh, that what we're calling it?” Paul asked innocently. John kicked his boot beneath the table.

“Any progress with the union, by the by?” Ellis took a sip of his drink, one arm crossed on the table in front of him. “Last I heard Albert dock had ground to a halt.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” John muttered. A lad from further up the table said loudly, “No use protestin’ if they just bring in outside bloody labour.”

Some of the ground lifted their drinks in solidarity. John scowled. “That’s precisely why we ‘ave to keep goin’. No use givin’ up before we’ve really begun. What’ll that say? That we’re too disorganized to keep to a bloody striking schedule. For fuck’s sake.” He took an angry pull from his cigarette.

“How long has it been since you’ve worked?” The blonde bloke frowned at John, an air of challenge in his tone. “Huh, John? I’m not saying we give up the cause –”

“Oh, he’s not saying that,” John interrupted sarcastically.

“But that we have to be realistic. Go through the proper channels, like. They respect that sort of shite. Not…” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Hanging around with placards, refusing to leave the yard.”

John jerked forward in his seat. “If you play their game,” he started heatedly, “you’re just as bad as they are. A bunch of bureaucratic fuckin’ nonsense shite that ends with wage cuts and longer hours – no fuckin’ respect at all!”

“I agree with John,” Ellis added. All eyes turned to him. Calm beneath the scrutiny, Ellis merely blinked and said, “No movement ever went forward by going backward. But it is a catch-22.” John scoffed loudly. “But it is. The bureaucracy doesn’t respect protest, but the protest doesn’t respect bureaucracy. We are in a system where ‘playing the game’ can yield results.”

“Marked down results.” John stabbed a finger to the table to illustrate his point, the cigarette burning low between his knuckles. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. “You give ground once and that’s it. You’re fucked. Then it happens again, and again, and a bloody ‘gain, until you’re worked ragged and nothin’ but a bag of fuckin’ bones.”

“Don’t reckon they’d listen anyroad,” Paul said, surprising himself. John rounded on him; the table watched curiously. “The bosses, I mean. Well, it sets a precedent, doesn’t it? Like what John said, if they listen to the protests once, it’ll only mean more people will realize what’s happenin’, and they can very well stop a whole city going on strike, can they, you know?”

“Thank you,” John exclaimed. “See, Shotton? Paul sees sense and he’s not even a bloody member.”

“Anyone want another drink?” Rod asked loudly. A chorus of orders sounded, and nearly drowned out Shotton’s dark look and a muttered aside. Swift as a bloodhound, John snapped, “Say again, Pete, don’t reckon I heard ye.”

Flushing angrily, Shotton thinned his lips and said, “S’nothin’,” and John sneered, “No, go on. I’ll be delighted to hear your pearls of wisdom.”

“I said –” A girl on Shotton’s other side put a hand to his arm and murmured something; he shook her off and, with a cold, hard voice, said, “That’s not the reason he’s agreeing, you daft fool.”

There was a peculiar silence. Rod clattered about getting up from the table, some people still calling out after him. The wireless dipped and wove beneath the burble of conversation.

Something seized Paul’s throat. He tried to swallow and stubbed out his cigarette. John was very still beside him.

Shotton held John’s gaze. Colour had risen in his cheeks, clashing with his white blonde hair, making his NDLB badge stand out against his dark duffel coat. It seemed to burn in the dim light like a beacon. Fury radiated in every inch of John’s tight body.

Paul tightened his hand into a fist against putting it on John’s shoulder. People glanced between them, the air tight as tenterhooks.

When John spoke, his voice was low and measured. “Tell him, Paul.”

Shock jolted through him. Paul stared at John’s profile in confused horror. “What?”

“Tell him.” John looked over, his expression flat and vacant. Paul searched his eyes for a flicker of meaning but found nothing.

Licking his lips nervously, Paul glanced over at Shotton, whose frown hardened with something that, Paul realized in an instant, could have been righteousness.

That urged him to action. Straightening in his chair, Paul looked past John. In his most pleasant, cool tone of voice, he said, “I reckon… we could all use a drink.”

“Hear hear,” someone interjected quickly. Rose nodded gratefully and glanced between them all. “Lovely idea. I’ll get Rod, shall I?”

Paul couldn’t bear to meet John’s furious gaze. He tried again to swallow past the lump in his throat and mechanically took a deep drink of beer.

Shotton nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he echoed, shooting John an inscrutable look. “A drink. Good one.”

As if on cue, Rod returned to the table with a tray laden with pints. Everyone reached out to take a glass, the conversation pitching away in an attempt to return to smooth waters. John’s eyes burned into Paul’s profile. He focused instead on sipping at his drink; and when Ellis started a mild conversation about what Paul did and studied, Paul felt his cool persona slip into place as easily as a mask.

John spent the rest of the evening chain smoking and drinking. Paul felt his presence as if he were sitting beside an open furnace. The discussion ebbed around poetry, studies, work, gossip. Once or twice they got into heated debates about philosophy or literature, which Paul engaged with if only to keep his mind away from the thunderstorm on his left. When the bartender gave a call for last rounds, John drained his glass in a single motion, and Paul said in an undertone, “Want to go?”

“Brilliant idea,” John snarled, and shoved to his feet. Paul remained after John stalked away to the door, saying goodbye to everyone and exchanging pleasantries. As he turned away from the table to pull on his muffler and do up his coat, Ellis came around to speak to him.

“I’m sorry for John,” he said quietly. “He is impetuous. But he is also very, very good.”

Paul tied a knot at his neck and regarded him in bemusement. “I know that. I know John. He’s fine. It’s alright. Thanks.”

“Yes,” Ellis sounded thoughtful, “I think you do. I hope we meet again, by the way.”

They shook hands. Paul gave him a small smile. Just before Ellis started to move away, something flashed through his mind, and Paul blurted, “Your last poem. Easy, easy. Was it about –”

For the first time that night, the way Ellis broke into a grin indicated his youth. “Perhaps.” He looked on the verge of winking, although instead he shrugged one shoulder and looked altogether too pleased with himself. “A matter of interpretation.”

“Must get annoying. People thinking you’re writing about something normal, when it’s not at all.”

Ellis’ grin faded into an understanding smile. “On the contrary. It’s the most normal thing in the world.”

Paul realized his hands had stilled. He looked away abruptly to finish tying his muffler. The door to the bar had long since swung closed; he glimpsed John’s angry shadow through the yellow frosted glass. Paul rubbed his lips together, thinking. When he found Ellis’ gaze, he couldn’t stop the strain in his voice as he said, “Is it?”

 _Normal_. Sadness softened Ellis’ aged features. “Yes,” he replied. “And it’s wonderful.”

Paul replayed those words as he stepped out into the crisp night air. He closed the heavy door behind him, muting the burble of conversation and laughter within. With cheeks pinched with warmth, he stamped his feet and peered up and down the street.

The end of a cigarette burned across the road. The darkness shifted stickily around John’s mercurial figure. The headlights of a passing car swept over him, illuminating the brick wall he leaned against, and the way he’d shoved one hand in the coat pocket, the other one white and slender where he held his cigarette.

Paul’s stomach twisted. He jogged across the road. The quiet of the Liverpool suburb clustered around them: distant traffic, the rush of waves on the wind, the hoarse whisper of the bare trees as they shifted in the gloom. Late autumn gripped their bones.

Once he was in earshot, Paul said, “Hey.” John’s expression was impossible to read in the blackness, but his cigarette bloomed bright and orange for a breathless instant.

After exhaling a cloud of smoke, John said, “Surprised you’re even here.”

Paul watched him warily. “What d’you mean? ‘Course I’d be here.”

“See, I’m not so sure about that.” John flicked the end of his cig with his thumb. This time, his eyes pierced Paul’s, pinning him to the spot. Paul’s voice was cold when he said, “John, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Don’t play daft,” John hissed, “it doesn’t suit ye. Inside. Back there. What the hell was that about, eh?”

Paul was surprised by his own anger. “You mean when you nearly gave us away in front of the whole bloody pub? Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Yes! No. So what if I am?”

Paul stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Who’s serious, Paul?” John threw his cigarette into the street, where it smoldered against the cobblestones. They glared at each other. “Who’s serious? Christ!” John laughed humorlessly. “You’re as bad as fuckin’ Pete. Topsy-turvy, all over the place. Can’t make up your fuckin’ mind.”

“You talking about me?” Paul asked coldly. “Or yourself?”

John scoffed but otherwise didn’t answer. The door to the pub opened suddenly, and noise poured out into the street. Paul glanced over his shoulder, but John had already taken off, his long legs swallowing up the pavement. Swearing under his breath, Paul hurried after him.

“John.” No response. Paul broke into a jog. “John. Bloody hell. Talk to me, won’t you? What’s going on?”

“Fuckin’ nothing,” John replied loudly, not looking at Paul. He sounded slightly manic. “A case of the good old Lennon madness. Stay well clear!”

For the second time that night, Paul made to grab John’s sleeve, but this time John jerked out of Paul’s grip and continued walking. Anger shimmered in the air between them. The further they went, the tighter Paul felt himself wind.

He stopped suddenly. John strode on for a few steps before jerking to a halt. He whipped around.

“Aren’t ye coming?” he demanded.

Paul threw up his hands. “What for? So you can keep me in the dark some more? Make me feel like I’m going ‘round the twist?”

“Position’s taken,” John sneered, and Paul made himself take a deep breath. “Fine, then. But help me understand. What is going on?”

The silence grew sullen between them. After a long moment, Paul tried, “Is it what I said in the pub? Because, John, really, c’mon. You can’t possibly expect me to –”

“What d’ye take me for!” John flared, hot and dangerous. “A snog in public? Like a coupla queers? Bet you’d like that, Paul. Bet you want me to grope you right then and there.”

Paul’s hands tightened into fists. He remembered being in the foyer: how the alarm in John’s expression softened into one of intent; the feeling of John’s lips against his, the way their breath hitched...  _Always, all the time, is it?_

They stared furiously at each other. The only aspect of John’s expression, which was otherwise flat and intense, that gave away his anger was the flush to his face, making his eyes glitter dangerously in the gloom. Paul’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He looked away and rubbed a hand over his mouth, his mind buzzing. In his peripheral vision, the streetlight slipped over the red badge pinned to John’s lapel.

There was a metallic taste in his mouth. What the hell could he do to diffuse the situation? What did John want from him?

Paul swallowed tightly and ran his hand through his hair. The Ford Anglia parked across the street reminded him of Jim’s car. Leaves scattered across the cobblestones, bringing with them a bite of rain. The sky swelled, black as a bruise and just as tender.

At length, he turned his head to catch John’s gaze. In all these weeks, Paul had never felt the distance between them. Now it ached.

“John,” Paul started, his voice catching in his throat. He stopped to clear it. “What… is this really about?” When John immediately opened his mouth to retort, Paul added, “Not just the pub thing. But back at the readin’. I’ve never seen you so –”

“Unhinged?” John suggested harshly. “Batty? Headed for the loony bin?”

Paul frowned. “No.”

“Fucking what, then, Paul!”

 _Scared_. “Lonely,” he said instead.

The look John gave him could have curdled milk. “Thanks very much,” he spat. “Fair play to make a man feel good about himself. You’re shite at pep talks, ‘as anyone ever told ye that?”

“You have,” Paul reminded him. “A number of times now.”

“Good thing one of us knows what’s up,” John whipped back. They regarded each other across the chasm. John jerked away and lit a cigarette, his actions sharp, the wind ripping the smoke away with a single gust. Paul coughed in surprise; John narrowed his eyes against the cold.

“Bloody hell,” Paul marveled, turning around to look up at the sky. The clouds gathered ominously. From up the block, the shouts of laughter from the pub took on an eerie quality. The tall surrounding houses were swathed in darkness. All that broke the gloom was the end of John’s cigarette, which burned irritably between his thin lips. Paul straightened and put his hands in his pockets.

“Alright. Bad pep talk notwithstandin’: did something happen, John? Something with –” Even saying her name made him feeling uncomfortable. “Cynthia?”

John shot him a derisive look. “Charming ye may be, McCartney, but tactful y’certainly are not.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “A trait we share, I’ve come to learn.”

The way John’s mouth pursed around his cigarette made Paul smirk, just a little bit. The atmosphere loosened slightly. John dropped his cigarette hand and flicked it with his thumb, exhaling smoke over one shoulder. As he made to lean against the brick wall to someone’s garden, he said, “As if ye care about me missus, Paul. Don’t even try.”

“I can ask, can’t I?” Paul waited for a beat, then drifted closer. The bricks, even through the sleeve of his coat, were rough and cold.

“Curiosity, cat,” John reminded him.

“Gotta try everything once,” Paul replied lightly.

John immediately rolled his eyes and took a drag from his cigarette. “Even if it offends yer gentle sensibilities, young Paul?” He tipped his head back to blow smoke to the wind.

Paul idly observed the column of John’s throat. “I reckon you underestimate me.”

“What’s that?” John drawled. “You’re not a clean-shoed, neat-haired representation of young adulthood?” An eyebrow quirked. “For shame.”

Affecting surprise, Paul said, “Oh, and you’re not a try-hard revolutionary kicked out of home who writes poetry on the weekends?”

John shot him a flat look. “Fuckin’ hilarious, this boy.”

“It’s funny because it’s true,” Paul told him, turning around to lean back against the wall. A third-floor window of the building across from them winked into existence. All was quiet save for the rhythmic inhale-exhale of John’s smoking, the distant clamor of the city in the late evening, and some passing traffic a few streets over. John’s presence beside him was solid, warm. Though they were separated by a meter of so, Paul felt him as keenly as if they were pressed together.

John’s low voice broke the silence. “If you’d not been there, I’d’ve punched his lights out.”

Paul looked at him quickly. “What?” he managed. “Like – belt him one?” When John shrugged, as laconic as if they were discussing the weather, Paul drew away. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“The gobshite deserved it, Paul,” John explained, almost lazy with derision. He must have noticed Paul’s alarm, because he snorted and turned back to his cigarette. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No.” Paul blinked and collected himself. “No, God. If you have t’beat people up to make them understand, I’m glad I don’t.”

“Why not?” In a flash John was angry again, flicking his cigarette into the gutter, pushing off from the wall. He stood in front of Paul with his jaw set. Without his overlong fringe he still cut an intimidating figure, those half-closed eyes trained on Paul. “Too rough for ye, Paulie? Don’t wanna get yer hands dirty?”

“Because it’s wrong!” Paul burst. “Can’t y’see that? Beating people up, disrupting the flow of – of work, or whatever, just to make some point about respect –”

“I bloody knew it.” John stared at him with mounting realization. “I knew you didn’t give fuck all about us, about worker’s rights. You know what your problem is, Paul?” He leaned in. “You’re a conservative.”

“I’m not conservative,” Paul replied flatly.

“But y’are, son!” John exclaimed. “Can’t ye see? Ye go around, with your nice job, and your nice clothes, and you’re playin’ the game. You’re playin’ into their game. Don’t ye get that?”

Frustration flared in his chest. “And what would you suggest I do?” Paul snapped. “Quit my job? Play music?”

“Yes, if it made ye happy!”

“And you don’t think I’m happy, is that it?” Paul gestured with spread hands. “I’m trapped, in a world of my own makin’?”

“Your words, not mine,” John quipped. “But no. I don’t. I think you’re bloody fuckin’ miserable. And I think ye won’t let yourself be happy. Because you’re afraid.”

Paul choked on a laugh. “Me? Afraid?” He stared at John with wide eyes. “Excuse me, I’m not the one with a bloody wife.”

“That’s different,” John retorted coldly, and Paul shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t think it is, John. In fact, I think it’s pretty much the same bloody thing.”

He found he was breathing hard – they both were. Something deep and intense flashed across John’s face. A tendon worked in his jaw. Paul glanced briefly down at John’s mouth; when he met John’s eyes, he was startled to see his pupils had bloomed dark.

“Well, then.” John’s slow voice was roughened by smoke and residual anger. “Seems like we’re as miserable as each other.”

 _He's right._ When Paul swallowed, it felt as if someone had a fist around his chest. That was the word he’d carried around for months – years, maybe. That swollen, oversized thing that weighed in his chest and threatened to suffocate him. It was a heavy feeling that stilled his hands from reaching for a guitar, for singing to himself; it stoppered his throat and made his jaw ache.

Paul searched John’s expression, feeling his heartbeat thrum at the tips of his fingers. You didn’t do this. You didn’t let yourself feel. Liverpool didn’t let you.

But when he looked at John, he sensed the same fracture. That swift current of longing that fed into the way John’s fingers splayed over frets, or how he caught Paul’s eye and grinned, his voice so hoarse and nasal that it made Paul blossom with heat. It was there that afternoon in Forthlin, and it was there when he hesitated onstage that night.

Oil-stained overalls. Oversized work boots. The plunging brim of his flat cap, pulled low and tight over a roving gaze that spoiled for a fight. How many Shottons had there been? And how many Pauls, to stop it from happening?

“Yeah,” Paul said at last. “Maybe we are.”

John blinked slowly, his eyes shifting between Paul’s own. “I did tell ye. In so many words.”

Paul frowned once, curious. “Told me what?”

The brick wall was hard against Paul’s back. He watched as John came closer, each movement coiled as a spring, the breeze stirring his auburn hair until it curled around hesitant eyes. He stopped only when they were a heartbeat away from each other.

“I’m bad news.”

Something restless scattered over John’s shuttered expression, something that made Paul inhale against the sharpness in his chest. _He’s very, very good,_ Ellis had murmured. _I know,_ Paul had said.

And he did. He knew.

“John,” he breathed. “You’re not.”

“But I am,” John replied quietly. “I’m shite. I’m bad news. It’s what I do best, Paul. It’s easy.”

This was like walking blindly into the dark with no guide. Paul felt himself drawn to John with the longing to touch John’s waist, to smooth a thumb across a cheekbone, to feel the warm, welcome press of John’s mouth to his. Confused want and sadness swelled along his arms, hands, fingers. Breathing shallowly through his nose, Paul cautiously reached out and trailed along John’s right wrist. That brush of skin on skin made his pulse stutter; John inhaled sharply.

Paul bit his lip against the desire to kiss John over, and over, and over. “John,” he started, his voice wavering. “I don’t know what to –”

“Don’t,” John interrupted, sounding lost. “I don’t want ye to.”

His heartbeat quickened. “What do you want?” Paul asked softly.

A small smile softened the corner of John’s mouth. He turned his hand until his fingers curled into Paul’s palm.

“Don’t ye know?”

“Yes,” Paul blurted. He bit his lip as John’s smile widened. “I mean. No?”

“Yes and no,” John mused. His tone dripped down Paul’s spine to pool warmly in his bones. Their hands brushed and electricity tangled beneath his skin. Quite suddenly it felt as if something had been knocked loose, and Paul had only the dimmest realization of how swiftly he’d lost himself in the person in front of him.

“Yes.” Glancing down, Paul’s mouth parted gently. “Yeah,” he exhaled.

“Good.” John shifted until the sides of their noses touched, their breath clouding gently between them. A gust of cool air made Paul shiver, and he felt rather than saw John’s smile.

Rousing himself, Paul licked his bottom lip. “John,” he started, “I need you to know –”

John’s nose wrinkled. “Really? Right now?”

Grinning, Paul said, “Yeah, right now. I want you t’know – you’re not bad. You’re not. At all. Okay?” He reached out to touch the dip of John’s waist, slipping his hand beneath his big duffel coat. The feeling of John’s warm skin under his jumper made Paul’s heart skip. He pulled away just enough to look down at John. “You’re not,” he repeated softly.

Discomfort trembled in the lines of John’s slender body. Time stretched between them. 

“Thought you saved the compliments?”

Paul leaned into John’s front until their lips skimmed. _Oh,_ he thought wildly, _oh._  “Consider yourself a special case,” he murmured. “A first-rate exception to the rule.”

“An abnormality,” John replied automatically, and Paul immediately shook his head.

“No, John.” He wound his arm around John’s waist and pulled him in until their chests were flush against one another. The quiet dark swallowed them whole. Paul’s whole being flushed with their proximity. When John’s strong hands encircled his waist, he felt himself stir with renewed want. And when he at last, at long last, tilted in to kiss John, he breathed, “You’re not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please lower my body into the ground
> 
> (but not without leaving a comment, because that would encourage me to 1. rise from the dead, so i can 2. finish the next chapter. thank you everyone for reading!!)
> 
>  **p.s.** this will earn the rating in the next chap ;~) just thought you ought to know..


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